


The Path Home

by V_Haley



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_Haley/pseuds/V_Haley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of curiosity, Gambit agrees to come back to the mansion, but he hasn't exactly left his previous life behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Path Home

**Author's Note:**

> Movieverse
> 
> Disclaimer: Neither the characters nor the concept are mine. I make no money from this.
> 
> A huge thanks to Carin for doing the beta on this, Kielle for all her help, and to Kaylana for reading though it.
> 
> Written 11/15/2000 before X2 and X3 were released.
> 
> Timeline: This is set two years after the movie, give or take a bit.

Nineteen year old Remy LeBeau scanned the mansion with the practiced eye of a thief. He noted from behind his mirrored sunglasses security that seemed out of place for a private school, a sense of caution that didn't fit with a place for "gifted youngsters" -- unless, as Wolverine had said, this was a safe haven for mutants. He could hear, faintly, the sound of voices from the far side of the mansion and worked his way around the back to watch a group of children his age and younger maneuver around a basketball court.

His smile was faintly bitter at the scene before him. His life had never been so easy, so . . . carefree. He had never goofed off with his friends on a court -- could not, in fact, remember playing at all. He had spent his youth on the streets of New Orleans, struggling to survive. When he had, with the devil's own luck, managed to pickpocket his way into the home of Jean-Luc LeBeau, his life had become a struggle of a different kind: to succeed, to be the best, to live up to the reputation of his adopted father, the Guildmaster of the New Orleans Thieves' Guild. Joy came from a successful pinch or defeating a skilled opponent, not from such a frivolous game as basketball. Remy wondered with rare longing, watching these happy, normal mutants, what it would have been like to grow up in a place like this. To be one of them, and never have to worry about anything beyond when the next paper was due. To not lose his idealism and innocence before he could remember having them.

Perhaps he was being unfair. He didn't know any of them, but at this moment, watching them so happy with no worries, he wished he'd never listened to Wolverine and had stayed where he belonged. Wolverine. Now there was a character. Mean mouthed and too damn arrogant for his own good. Still, Remy felt a sense of kinship with the feral mutant. Wolverine was a man who had been to the darker side of life; Remy could tell that just from his reactions when they had first met. He glanced at the mansion's window and remembered . . .

Bypassing the security on the D'arlon's semi-palatial house, Remy slid the window up slowly. He slipped in, dropping neatly to the floor. His brown trench coat pooled around him, then straightened as he rose to his feet. Remy's eyes glowed faintly in the dark, his enhanced vision making the room clearly visible. They were devil's eyes, he'd been taunted -- never by the thieves and rarely when they thought he could hear, but often enough on the streets and when he'd gone into the city. At times like this, he was even grateful to them, the red-on-black stigma that pronounced him 'mutant'. He made his way unerringly through the plushly decorated living room, ignoring the pricey decorations he could easily have walked away with. They weren't his target, and Jean-Luc was a firm believer in discipline.

What Remy wanted was an old sword, a nineteenth century cavalry rapier that the Guild was being paid a large sum to 'retrieve'. This particular piece was treasured by Monsieur D'arlon, and kept in the very room he slept in. Following the floor plans he'd memorized earlier, Remy slipped through the house to where his victim slept, oblivious. Outside the door to the master bedroom, Remy carefully oiled the hinges. He doubted that a man as rich as D'arlon had squeaky hinges, but Jean-Luc always stressed caution. "Plan for everything, Remy," he'd say.

Remy sensed someone moving up behind him and started to turn when a rough hand on his shoulder caused him to freeze. How had this man -- whoever he was -- spotted him?

"Whacha doin' here, bub?" a low voice growled. Remy thought quickly. Was this man part of the family? If he was, there was no way in hell Remy could claim to be a boy sneaking into his father's bedroom, especially dressed as he was with the black kevlar bodysuit under his brown trench coat. Was this D'arlon? It couldn't be -- D'arlon was a purebred Cajun, and whoever this man was, his accent wasn't from New Orleans. Nor did D'arlon have anyone living with him currently. It was probably safe to assume that the man holding him had no more right to be here than Remy himself did.

"I was out late," he lied quickly, continuing his turn to face the strange, stocky man. "I jus' came in t' tell m' pere I was home, eh homme? What're y' doin' sneakin' inta m' house?"

A menacing chuckle was the response. "Yer lyin'. I can smell it on ya. Ya thief or assassin?"

Remy drew himself up sharply. "I'm no assassin," he insisted, a hint of anger in his voice. As if he belonged to the Assassin's Guild! No member of the Thieves' Guild would be associated with any of their assassin nemeses.

"So yer a thief," the stranger assumed. Remy smiled charmingly.

"I'm jus' gettin' paid t' return a sword to de rightful owner. Not'in more."

A skeptical snort came from the shadowed man. Even with his superior night vision, Remy couldn't make out his face. "Sure thing, kid. Listen up. I'm gonna ask that man a couple a' questions, and I don' want ya stickin' around."

"Whatever ya say, homme," Remy agreed easily.

Wolverine released the kid and was reassured to see him leave. He turned back to the door, opened it, and entered the bedroom of the man who, according to some of his Canadian sources, knew about the men who had kept him prisoner and laced his bones with the nearly indestructible metal adamantium. He sniffed carefully and smelled the scent of his prey in the room. He moved forward, flicking on the light. He took in the furnishings of the room, briefly noting the sword that child thief had claimed he was coming to get. With lethal speed, he crossed the room and pulled the dazed man from underneath his rumpled bed covers.

The man's eyes widened in terror at the snarling features of the violent looking man who held him. "What d' y' wan'?" he demanded, glaring back in bravado. Wolverine could smell the fear in him.

"What do ya know 'bout 'Weapon X'?"

Three hours later, Wolverine had gotten nothing out of the man that could lead to further clues about his past, though D'arlon had confessed to any number of other highly illegal activities. He suppressed a growl of frustration. Yet another dead end. He struck the man unconscious and moved to leave. Immediately he noticed two things: the strange thief had been in the room, and the sword was missing. In spite of his frustration, Wolverine couldn't help but smile in admiration. The kid had managed to sneak past him and get what he came for. That took guts and skill -- both of which Wolverine respected. With nothing more to do in New Orleans, he felt his curiosity pique. Who was the boy? He'd sounded native from that accent, though it could have been affected. With time to kill, he decided to see what he could pick up about the aspiring thief.

He found the easiest way to track the kid was by his eyes. Since he couldn't very well go traipsing across the city looking for one particular scent and people with Cajun accent weren't exactly uncommon here, the eyes were the closest he could come to a reliable way to track the boy. The eyes -- red eyes that glowed demonically in the dark -- had to be a mutation. It was a simple matter of tracking down a mutant thief with red eyes. Logan wasn't exactly a reputable guy. He knew his way through the worse side of town. Within two days, he'd found what he wanted to know.

"Yeah," the Yankee-sounding contact said slowly. "Red eyes . . . that'd be Jean-Luc LeBeau's foundling mutie brat. He'd be on the other side of town." Wolverine smiled at the man; it almost seemed menacing when he did -- his smile certainly had the hint of wildness in it, something that could spin out of control at any time. With a wave to the bartender, he paid his tab and left the crowded bar. It was time to pay the boy a visit.

Remy LeBeau noticed the man almost immediately where he leaned nonchalantly against one of the trees that bordered the drive way to Jean-Luc's house. Curious at first, he approached the man, apprehensively realizing as he drew closer that the stranger seemed familiar in some way.

"Hey, kid. Long time no see," the stranger greeted him. The gravelly voice sparked his memory. It was the man from the pinch last night. Poker face firmly in place, Remy grinned slightly.

"D' I know y'?" he asked, feigning puzzlement.

The man grinned. "Yer good, kid, I'll give ya that. But ya can't change yer scent," he said meaningfully, tapping his nose, "or yer voice. That was a smooth pinch ya pulled off last night."

Remy was glad for the sunglasses that made his expression harder to read as well as hiding his obvious mutation. So this man was a mutant, too. Probably had heightened senses from the statement just now and the passing comment he'd made last night. What did he want?

"Don' know what y' talkin' 'bout. I was home all night wit' m' pere."

The man's grin turned slightly sardonic. "Would this be the same 'pere' ya robbed last night?"

"What you wan'?" Remy demanded in frustration.

"Keep yer pants on. I'm just curious," Wolverine said mildly.

Remy's quicksilver good cheer returned. "Oh, dat all?" he asked, mildly sarcastic.

"What's yer name, kid?"

Remy sighed in frustration. This man was completely unreadable and unpredictable. His emotions were hard to read, almost bestial, but he didn't sense any threat. Remy's empathy was useful in situations like this. It rarely led him wrong, and occasionally came in very handy, like confusing Wolverine's mind while he retrieved the sword.

"Remy LeBeau," he answered finally.

"Logan. People call me Wolverine." Remy accepted this unsolicited information with a nod.

"M' workin' name's Gambit," he offered, trusting his instincts not to lead him wrong.

"Gambit, huh? Not bad, fer a kid."

Gambit smirked. "Got pas' y' last night, didn' I, mon ami?"

"Not until after I snuck up on ya," Wolverine corrected. Remy shrugged philosophically, charming grin still in place. "Yer a mutant, ain't ya?"

Remy stared at him sharply, but it was common knowledge with his eyes like they were. Most strangers didn't notice since he kept them hidden behind his sunglasses, but anyone who knew him knew about his eyes. "Oui," he admitted.

"Just the eyes?" Wolverine pressed.

Remy looked away briefly, uncertain what to answer. He inhaled deeply. "Non. I can make stuff 'splode."

Wolverine accepted that calmly. "Y' ever lose it?"

"Non. Not 'n years. I use t', 'specially when I got upset." Wolverine was silent, thinking.

"There's a place in Westchester, New York, called 'Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.' They help kids like ya out, if ya ever need it."

Remy caught his breath. "Dey're mutants?" Wolverine nodded, suppressing his smile over the idea of Scott trying to deal with this charmer thief. Even if he didn't want to help the kid out, it'd be worth sending him there just to see the look on Scott's face.

"Mebbe someday, Gambit will check de place out, hmm?" Wolverine could see the idea appealed to the kid. He couldn't know many mutants and certainly didn't know any place set up specifically for mutants.

"Maybe," Wolverine agreed. "If ya do, tell 'em Logan sent ya. See ya 'round, kid. I got someplace else ta be." Wolverine left on a stylish custom bike that Remy noted, with passing envy, must have been expensive.

Remy stayed unmoving as Wolverine left, thinking about the strange man's -- mutant's -- information. He was curious, despite his natural wariness. It could be a trap . . . but what if it wasn't? Perhaps it would be a good idea for him to check this 'school' out. If it was a place for mutants . . . He cut that speculation off sharply. He had a home here; the Guild cared for him. He had Belladonna, his sweetheart and future wife. Their marriage, even arranged to end the feud between the Assassins and the Thieves, held the thrill of youthful love. He would be happy in New Orleans. Still, it might be nice to meet someone else like him, someone who wouldn't think he was a freak or mutter "devil eyes" when they thought he couldn't hear.

Now, watching the group of mutants playing basketball, Remy was caught by two conflicting emotions. This was one of the stupidest ideas he'd ever had -- there was no place for an ex-street rat thief here -- and that he'd do almost anything to have their carefree, childlike happiness, to have a home again. He sighed. If he told them his past, they'd drive him away. People like this, normal people, didn't take in someone like him. Gambit could lie as easily as he breathed, but he felt reluctant to build a lie about his past. Staying with them for any length of time, a false past would trip him up unless he kept it very simple.

Y' fool! he snarled at himself. Y' actually t'inkin' a' stayin'?

Why de hell not? he argued back. Jus' t' find out what it's like. I can stay a bit, den move on. It's not like I got some place t' be. Dey don' have t' know who I am; dey don' have t' know anyt'ing 'bout me.

Resolved, he slipped through the mansion's security back around to the front and then outside the gates. Retrieving his duffle bag from where he'd hidden it, he returned to the gate, this time not bothering to hide his approach. He pressed the buzzer to call the house and was rewarded by a formal woman asking, in an accented voice, who he was and his business.

"'Allo, chere," he answered her, sounding as charming as he could. "I was hopin' I could speak t' Monsieur Xavier 'bout joinin' de school."

The woman paused. "Very well," she answered. "I will have someone show you in. Please wait there."

"Anyt'ing y' say," he agreed. "T'anks." Jean-Luc always said be charming and polite. It got a thief much farther than threats. "Knowin' when t' t'reaten is as importan' as knowin' how t' do it," he remember Jean-Luc telling him time and again. He resisted the urge to shake his head violently -- to thrust out all thoughts of his former home and the happiness he'd known there. Y' an exile now. After a year y' should be used t' it.

He was met less than five minutes later by a lean, brown haired man with odd red glasses and a dark skinned woman with the most amazing white hair he'd ever seen. She didn't appear to be all that much older than he was, but her thick, cloud-colored mane was something he would expect to see on an old woman.

Remy was aware of their scrutiny. His faded jeans and t-shirt were covered by his well worn brown trench coat; his eyes, as usual, masked, and his reddish brown hair pulled back so it wouldn't get in his way if he had to move into action suddenly. One hand was shoved into his pocket; the other steadied the dark green, battered bag slung over his shoulder. He shot them both a lopsided grin, returning the scrutiny. At last, the man spoke.

"I'm Scott Summers, this is Ororo Monroe. We're teachers here."

Remy smiled dashingly at Ororo and addressed her as if she was the one who had spoken. "I'm Gambit, chere. Guy by de name a' Wolverine suggested I stop by."

Scott snorted. "Figures. Guy picks up strays faster than anyone I know in spite of his attitude."

"Scott," Ororo chided him. "I'll show you to a room, and then you can meet the Professor."

"Sure t'ing." He followed her up the lane to the brick building. As they made their way through the house, he carefully catalogued what he saw. Not that he planned to steal anything, exactly, but habit was habit. The entire place reeked of taste and wealth, and though most of the doors were closed, occasionally a curious youth would stick his head out of the door. From the lack of women and Ororo's comments, Remy surmised they were in some type of boy's wing. Ororo stopped at a door indistinguishable from the others and knocked. Several loud knocks later, the door was opened by an annoyed, green haired boy.

He took one look at Ororo and Remy and sighed. "I'm getting a roommate, aren't I?" Ororo managed not to laugh, but Remy saw her eyes sparkle.

"For the moment, Christian, yes."

Christian gave Remy a disgruntled once-over, then opened the door wider. "C'mon in," he agreed reluctantly, stepping away to let Remy enter. Remy did, and looked around in horror. He might have a scruffy appearance, but his thief's habits ensured where he lived was always immaculate, everything where he could find it immediately. This room was a mess. Clothes lay heaped on the floor and the one made bed. The other bed was rumpled, but the blankets had been pulled up in an attempt to make it seem made. Posters of half nude women, sports cars, and several dangerous looking sports were tacked up on the walls, covering what Remy was sure was expensive wooden paneling. The furnishings in the room were littered with knick-knacks of every kind, interspersed with empty pop cans and discarded candy wrappers that had yet to make it into the garbage can that threatened to explode.

If dis be "normal," give me de t'ief's life! Remy thought in disgust. Christian echoed his survey of the room, and winced slightly. Remy could feel his embarrassment acutely, and it occurred to him that maybe a part of him not wanting a roommate had to do with showing this mess, especially to a boy he didn't know and a teacher who just happened to be a beautiful woman on top of that. Several sharp comments came to mind, but Remy pushed them down. It wouldn't be smart to make Christian an enemy, not when the boy was his roommate. Not that Remy doubted he'd come out on top, but it would make his life a little harder until he decided to leave.

"Mind if I leave dis bag here while I talk t' de professor?" Remy asked finally. Christian nodded and waved at the other bed. "T'anks, mon ami."

Leaving the bag behind, Remy followed Ororo to the professor's office, his trained memory already making a map of the building and marking the exits if he had to leave in a hurry.

Ororo stopped before what Remy surmised to be Professor Xavier's office and knocked softly. She was answered by a muffled voice instructing, "Enter," and she motioned him in. What Remy noticed first about the professor was his face: bald head, warm, kind eyes, and a welcoming smile. Dis man's dangerous, Remy realized, keeping his face expressionless. He'd charm de devil t' be his friend.

"So you're Gambit. Please, come in," Xavier invited from behind his large wooden desk. Remy cautiously took a seat in one of the padded arm chairs. "Scott told me you wanted to see me about joining the school." So dat's where de man went. "He said you met Wolverine."

Remy hesitated, then hedged around the truth. "Dat's right. I met Wolverine down 'n N' Orleans. He said y' had a place up here f' people like me." If I ever needed help, come here, he added silently, but his pride would never allow him to admit he needed help.

"What do you mean, 'people like you'?" the professor pressed gently. Remy didn't sense any hostility from the man -- then realized with a start that he couldn't sense anything from him. It shook him. Most people didn't have any way to shield their emotions from him and the thought that this man did was enough to send chills down his spine. So I have t' read his body language instead -- use what I learn', Remy chastised himself. Some o' de kids in de back were mutants -- prob'ly all o' dem, jus' not 'n ways I could tell. He testin' me, t' see 'f I know de trut'.

"Mutants," Remy answered finally. Xavier nodded.

"We are. Can I ask what your mutation is?" Xavier leaned forward in his desk and seemed curious, rather than repulsed. It was a gratifying reaction. The only person who had ever looked at him like that was Jean-Luc when he grabbed the little street rat who'd pick pocketed him and found himself holding a devilling instead. Xavier ran a school for mutants. Remy figured he'd probably seen it all.

He pulled the sunglasses off in answer, not actually lying to him -- he never said his eyes were his only mutation -- but leading the professor to believe this was the only thing strange about him. Xavier examined his odd eyes carefully.

"Interesting," he commented. "Do they change your vision at all?"

"A li'l," Remy answered. "I see better 'n de dark, but bright lights ain' much fun, neh?"

"Tell me, Gambit, have you ever heard thoughts in your head?" Remy's perplexity showed on his face.

"T'oughts?" he repeated. T'oughts, non. Emotions, 'course, he thought. Again, he didn't say it aloud -- that would be giving too much away.

"Have you ever heard anything in your head that you suspected wasn't your own?" Xavier rephrased.

"Non," Remy answered, shaking his head. "De only t'oughts in m' head're mine. Why?"

"I was merely curious. I'm a telepath, so that's what I primarily train." The professor was looking at him thoughtfully, which made Remy uneasy. Was the professor trying to read his thoughts? Could the professor read his thoughts?

"So where d' I go now?" Remy asked, breaking the silence and the speculation.

"I'll have Scott give you your schedule and show you around," the professor instructed, a bit brusquely. Dat's not good, Remy decided.

"Don't s'pose y' could have 'Roro show me 'round instead, huh?" he wheedled, knowing the professor would assume it was a crush-driven request. Ororo was beautiful, but Remy had known many women as beautiful. Belladonna, his once sweetheart and current wife, came to mind. He'd killed because of her, his Assassin lover, and lost his first home -- his only home -- because her brother, loyal to the Assassin's Guild, thought a mutant thief wasn't good enough to marry his sister, not even if it brought peace to the Guilds. He had been willing to kill Remy; instead, Remy had killed him and been exiled for it.

Remy wrenched his mind away from the past. In truth, he simply didn't want to spend any more time with Scott Summers than he had to. He hadn't missed the disapproval in the way the man had looked at him. It was better to charm Ororo than fight with Scott, he decided magnanimously. Besides, she was cuter.

Professor Xavier smiled slightly. "I don't think that will be a problem." Remy grinned at him.

"T'anks, Professor. I'll show m'self de way out."

"I'll send Ms. Monroe to your room in a half an hour so you have time to unpack."

Remy stared at him incredulously. "Didn' bring dat much stuff, mon ami."

Xavier laughed. "Get to know Christopher. He's a good boy; he'll help you out."

Gambit's expression became detached, chill. "Don' need help, Xavier. Haven' 'n a long time." Not from Jean-Luc, not from the Guild, not from anyone.

He turned and left abruptly, moving with the silent grace of an accomplished thief. Xavier stared after him sadly.

"I think you need it more than you know," he spoke to the empty room. He sat thinking, then opened the communications link to Jean.

"Jean?"

"Yes, Professor?" she replied. He could imagine her down in her lab, pausing in whatever delicate experiment she'd been running.

"Could you come here for a minute? I'd like to talk to you about our newest student."

"Of course. Give me a minute to finish this up and I'll be right there."

Jean was prompt, sliding into the seat across from him. Her face showed her worry plainly.

"What is it, Professor? Is there something wrong?"

Xavier shook his head. "No, nothing wrong. Wolverine sent us another foundling, a boy who goes by the name of Gambit."

"No other name?"

"Not that he said, and I didn't want to press him about it so soon."

Jean frowned. "What did you pick up from his mind? Surely he was thinking his name at some point."

Xavier leaned forward. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I couldn't get into his mind. Even his surface thoughts were very controlled, though I did pick up a deep wariness for someone so young. I wonder how long he's been on his own? Of course," he added, with self-depreciating humor, "I couldn't read that from his mind either."

Jean sat up straight, shocked. Xavier was the leading telepath on the planet. How could some kid keep him out? "Why not?"

"I don't have any idea." Jean could tell from the slight frown on his face that this perturbed him. "I asked him if he'd ever heard thoughts, but he seemed genuinely confused that I would think he was a telepath."

"Did you ask him about his shields?"

"I can't," Xavier said in frustration. "That would be admitting we tried to scan him without his knowledge. He doesn't trust us now. Why would he after we tried to violate his privacy? He needs a home too badly, I think, to let him run now."

"Maybe the shields are natural," she suggested.

"Maybe. This school is supposed to be a place for these kids to start over, Jean, but I'm worried about Gambit. We know nothing about him. I don't think he's a threat, but for the safety of the other students, I think it would be a good idea to keep an eye on him, at least until he settles in."

"Is that really necessary?" she asked, disapproving.

"I don't know," Xavier confessed, "but none of these students have anywhere to go. I don't want that jeopardized for any of them. I'm only suggesting we keep an eye on him a little more carefully than the other students. He seems to respond better to women than to men. He already has a crush on Storm. I'd appreciate it if you'd both work with him, try to make him realize that he has nothing to fear from us."

Jean nodded, reluctantly agreeing with his arguments. "Yes, Professor."

"Thank you, Jean."

***

Remy retraced the way to his room easily, pausing outside the door long enough to knock and receive a grudging, "Come in."

The room had been cleaned in his absence, fortunately, and most of the clutter was squirreled away elsewhere or disposed of. His side of the room was empty, though the posters remained on the walls. Remy studied them for a moment, then decided it was better to let them stay. They made him look more normal, and he had a feeling he'd need all the help he could get in that. He nodded to Christian and went to unpack his bag. He was surprised to hear Christian speak.

"You don't have to knock. It's your room too."

"Didn' want t' disturb y'," Gambit answered flatly, not turning around. Christian rolled his eyes and tried again.

"I wouldn't be surprised if some of the others start dropping by. At least, that's what they did for me. They're always curious about the new guy."

"So y' told dem I was here?" Gambit asked, turning around. He was teasing; had he been in Christian's place, he would have used the information to gain prestige as well. "Never waste an advantage," Jean-Luc had taught him. Non, he told himself sharply. Don' t'ink o' him. Don' t'ink o' any o' dem.

Christian nodded, uneasy about being found out. "So where are you from?"

"N' Orleans," Remy answered, ignoring the fact that he hadn't been there in over a year, not since he'd . . . not since the Guild had exiled him. He sat back on the bed. Christian was lying on his bed, fiddling with some disassembled mechanical object.

"New Orleans? Cool! Have you seen the Arc?" Christian asked.

"De Arc?" Remy repeated, scanning his memory. He laughed, realizing what Christian was talking about. "Non, de Arc's in St. Louis."

Remy happily answered all of Christian's questions about his home town. As long as they were talking about New Orleans, they weren't talking about the life Remy didn't have. As they talked, Remy worked on strengthening his mental shields. Years ago, when his empathy had first shown up and bombarded him with the emotions of other people, he had developed the technique of shutting out other people, and those first shields had held for a long time. Usually, he left his shields down enough to sense the strongest emotions of the people around him, but living in a house with a confessed telepath, he was reconsidering. He could only hope that the block he put up to keep emotions out was also good enough to keep one nosy telepath from getting in, otherwise his past, his secrets, and the Guild's secrets might as well be shouted on the streets. He has sworn an oath to his Guild, his word on his blood, that he would never reveal the Thieves' Guild. Now, telepath or no, he would keep that oath. Even if he wasn't one of them, and could never be one of them again.

Remy and Christian lasted a whole ten minutes before the first of the visitors showed up.

Bobby, St. John, and Sam were the first to arrive, followed shortly after by Rogue, Kitty, and Jubilee. Gambit watched these unknown people enter, suddenly uncomfortable with the number of strange people crowding the small room, all staring at him in expectant curiosity. He was very glad he was sitting with his back to the wall with a window nearby if anything happened. An irrational fear, probably, but one formed from long habit.

Bobby and Jubilee claimed the two chairs, Sam settled onto the bed with Christian and Kitty. Rogue chose to sit near Bobby with her back against the bed, and St. John stayed standing, leaning against the wall.

"Guys, this is Gambit. He's the new guy," Christian broke the silence. "Gambit, you have, in circular order, Bobby Drake, who we call 'Iceman', 'cause he is; Marie, but everyone calls her Rogue; Sam Guthrie; Katherine Pryde, but we know her as Kitty; St. John Allerdyce, generally called John or Pyro; and Jubilation Lee, but call her Jubilee, or she'll get pissed."

Jubilee made a face at Christian, but didn't retort verbally.

"I t'ink I can r'memeber dat," Remy commented, smiling slightly. "So why do dey call y' 'Iceman'?" he asked, neatly diverting the topic before they could ask questions about him.

In answer, Bobby cupped his hands in front of him, shielding what he was doing from Remy. Remy felt the first tinge of alarm and lowered his mental shields enough to catch Bobby's emotions. No threat, just mischievousness. He relaxed, and Bobby's snowball flew through the air. Gambit sensed the move nearly as soon as it began and flung himself to the side, rolling to his feet beside the bed. His hands went to his cards, tensed to attack, but realized what exactly Bobby had thrown before the situation turned violent. He was once again the center of attention in the room, this time because of his sudden movement. He could sense their combined shock through his shields.

"Woah!" Bobby spoke. "Nice reflexes!" Gambit looked to him, then the snowball smashed into the wall right where his head would have been, and calmed himself. It was a prank, nothing more. The kind of things a normal kid would do. It was normal to throw a snowball. It wasn't normal to react like he was home in New Orleans, dodging an Assassin's knife instead. What was he doing here? It was a stupid idea.

Gambit walked back to the bed, striving for nonchalance, and took a seat -- slightly closer to the window but no longer under the snowball.

Rogue watched the entire scene quietly. Maybe the others thought he just had fast reflexes, but she knew better. She'd been on the road and seen the dangerous side of life. Gambit had reacted like he'd been attacked, and she wondered what exactly he was going to throw at them before he realized he was safe. It saddened her. She knew what it felt like never to be safe, to assume that there was a price to be paid for every bit of aid and that a hand was more likely to strike than help. He sat there now, feigning that he was at ease, but she could see the subtle tension in him. It was much like the way Wolverine was, only without the same animal-like ferocity.

"Very impressive, Icecube," St. John drawled, interrupting the uncomfortable silence. "A snowball. Did you hurt yourself? I can do better than that." He flicked his lighter and the flame jumped to become a globe of fire in his hand, efficiently demonstrating why he was called 'Pyro'. Rogue saw Gambit tense again, and his entire focus moved to St. John. St. John flipped the first ball of fire into the air, then split it into another. Soon, he was juggling five of the flaming balls in a complicated, mesmerizing pattern. With a quick puff, they all vanished at once. St. John sat back again, smugly satisfied. Bobby glared half-heartedly at his roommate. Their rivalry was mostly in jest, and neither took it very seriously.

"Show off," Jubilee muttered loudly, winking at Gambit. He smirked back at her.

"So what d' y' do?" he asked her. She shrugged.

"I blow stuff up." Gambit started.

"Pardon?"

"I can shoot plasma bursts from my hands. It shorts out anything mechanical," she clarified.

"Packs quite a punch, too," Bobby said ruefully.

"I'd watch out for those three," Kitty advised him, hoping to draw the cute new boy's attention to herself. She gestured towards Bobby, Jubilee, and St. John. "They are the unchallenged, undefeated pranksters of the school for gifted youngsters. A month ago, you might have gotten one of them as a roommate; however," she added, smiling wickedly at the two boys, who were not enjoying this recap of their recent adventures anywhere near as much as she was, "their most recent prank war ended with Mr. Summers eating the pepper cake that was meant for Bobby. Professor Xavier said that if they wanted a prank war, they could do it in their own room and leave the rest of us in peace. They've been stuck with each other since."

Bobby shrugged and grinned unrepentantly, a move echoed by St. John.

Remy looked up at the snowball, exaggerating the movement. "Dem? Pranksters? Nah, y' got dem all wrong, chere."

Kitty laughed. "Bobby tried the snowball trick on me too. I just phased right through it."

Remy cocked an eyebrow questioningly. She stood and waved her hand through a wall in demonstration. He whistled.

"Dat's handy," he commented. She'd be handy f' breakin' an' enterin', Gambit thought mischievously. Dey'd never know what hit dem.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Almost as much fun as being able to fly, like Sam."

"Y' can fly?" he asked, amazed. Sam nodded shyly.

"Yes, Ah can. Ah can generate a field 'round mahself," he explained in a soft, Southern accent, "an' when Ah release it behind me, it lets me fly."

"Also makes him invincible, or nearly," Jubilee interjected. Remy nodded, impressed.

"So what amazin', marv'lous t'ing d' you do?" Remy asked Christopher, sardonic grin in place.

"I'm invulnerable," Christian answered cheerfully.

"I t'ought he was gonna say he had green hair, or somet'in'!" Remy protested. Christian laughed.

"Most people do when I tell them I'm a mutant. I dye my hair."

Rogue stayed silent, a habit against rejection. She didn't want him to flinch away like everyone else, the way even Bobby did sometimes. Not yet, not while he still treated her like everyone else with that mischievous grin masking elusive, wary eyes.

"We're all alpha class," Bobby informed Gambit. It sounded like he was bragging, so Gambit asked the obligatory question.

"What's alpha class?"

"I'm not sure what the exact classification is, but the way I think it works is if your power's strong enough to be a threat, you're alpha. A parlor trick power's a beta; a physical change that's not dangerous, like blue skin, makes a gamma. But omegas are the really scary ones -- like Magneto. They're almost impossible to stop."

Remy remembered Henri's words, overheard when he first started kinetically charging objects. "T'ink, Pere. What if he charged de whole house? O' a buildin' downtown? Dieu, he could level a whole neighborhood -- or a city." He didn't want to think about that, or what came after. Nineteen an' damned, 'magine dat, he thought bitterly.

"So what's your power, Gambit?" Bobby asked, leaning back precariously in the wooden chair.

Gambit pulled off his sunglasses smoothly, wincing imperceptibly at the brightness of the light. "Not a big deal, neh?" he asked softly. "Dese made me 'fraid t' lift m' head for de first t'ree years I can r'member."

Bobby flinched. "Ouch. Sorry." But he didn't press the issue, which was why Gambit had said it. His other talents were his own damn business.

Gambit grinned faintly, burying the memories. "Guess dat makes me gamma, heh?" he teased, not bothering to hide his amusement at Bobby's discomfort.

"Don't worry, Gambit, we like you anyway," St. John interjected, teasing.

Gambit smiled sardonically, but before he could retort, Rogue spoke.

"With an accent like that, Ah'd say ya were from New Orleans," she commented, forestalling a possible argument, her accent as Southern as Sam's.

"Oui," he answered.

Any further conversation was halted as Ororo appeared at the doorway.

"Gambit? Do you have time now to see the grounds and discuss your schedule with me?"

"For you? O' course, chere. Jus' say de word, an' I'm yours." The dashing bow as he stood only added to the effect. Ororo shook her head, a tiny smile touching her lips.

"Scoundrel," she chided him.

"Me? Y' wound me, 'Roro," he teased.

"I doubt that. If you would please come with me . . ." She gestured towards the door.

"Anyt'ing y' say," he answered, sticking with his previous answer.

Leaving the room full of curious fellow students behind, they began a tour of the various classrooms.

"Have you had a formal education, Gambit?" Ororo asked.

"How formal y' mean? Did I go t' school?" Remy asked casually. She nodded. "Non, never went t' school." Was t'irteen b'fore I could read, an' I fought Pere -- Jean-Luc -- ev'ry step o' de way, he added silently. "Have a high school level education, t'ough."

"Where did you learn?" He could barely sense the well contained curiosity. Professor Xavier disturbed him because Remy couldn't sense his emotions at all, but Ororo was comfortable to be around, with her tightly controlled emotions that didn't smother him.

"M' pere taught me."

"We have a test you will need to take to determine what classes you will be in. It is a standard placement test that will give us some idea of your level of knowledge."

"Oui, if y' wan' me to," Remy agreed.

"I would say that you will probably have an English class . . ."

"Already speak English, 'Ro," he interrupted.

". . . a math class and a science class, the latter of which will probably be with Dr. Jean Grey, perhaps a geography course or a history course, and almost certainly a self defense class."

"Now why would I need t' learn a t'ing like dat? I can take care o' m'self jus' fine."

"Nevertheless," she insisted regally, that hint of humor at his protest present, "everyone at the school trains, both to keep our special talents in control and to learn to defend ourselves from those who would harm us."

Gambit's expression hardened at that, and Storm realized she'd struck a nerve.

"I know how dat goes," he admitted softly. "At least de work'll keep me in shape, neh?"

"It would," she agreed, not wanting to hurt his feelings about his perceived skill level. "Do you wish to take the test now so we can determine your classes?

"Oui. Gotta take it sometime."

She directed him to a room and sat the test in front of him. He was disappointed when she left, but was soon focused on the test enough not to miss her. To his slight dismay, it was not Ororo who returned to collect his test, but an equally beautiful dark-haired woman who introduced herself as Dr. Grey. Remy was seriously starting to consider that they hired their teachers as much for their looks as for their intelligence.

"Y' de one who teach science, neh?"

"Yes," she confirmed, a little flattered that he not only recognized her, but also what she taught. "I'll get this scored. You can go back to your room or visit with the other students. You can start your self defense class tomorrow morning, and come to Ororo or myself for you class schedule after that."

Slightly early for his "self defense class" the next day, Remy paused outside the gym in sweats and yet another t-shirt. Both were baggy enough to hide the weapons he was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to have yet. Remy rarely did what he was supposed to, and disliked the idea of being unarmed. At all times, Remy had a deck of cards at hand. Innocent seeming, his ability to kinetically charge inanimate objects and make them explode turned simple playing cards into devastating weapons. In New Orleans, he'd always had a knife or throwing spikes in addition to his retractable bo staff and the cards. Just in case.

Stepping inside, he realized the self defense course was taught by none other than Scott Summers, which made Remy mutter that the Powers That Be must hate him.

Jean, watching for him, smiled at the young man's comment. It sounded very much like something Logan would say were he here. Like finder, like foundling? From what Jean could tell so far, Gambit didn't consider himself a student; he didn't look up to the teachers, addressed them by first name or a French endearment, and held himself with a confidence that said plainer than words: back off, I don't want your help. Gambit's entire attitude, in fact, seemed like an equal to an equal. When he went along with one of their decisions, it was because he wanted to, not because he'd been told to do it. It made her wonder what he'd been through to make him so determinedly self reliant and private. Was there no one he trusted?

She glanced over at the object of her consideration. His expression as he viewed Scott was mischievously wicked for a moment, then became studiously open and eager. Jean had the sneaking suspicion she was watching a con in the making. Keeping quiet, she stayed on the sidelines to watch.

"Monsieur Summers?" Remy asked respectfully. His sunglasses had, for once, been left in his room and he strove to keep his face as "honestly" open and obedient as possible. Scott looked over at him.

"Ah, Gambit, good." Now y' ask me what kind o' experience I have, Gambit instructed silently.

"We'll get you started on basic drills," Scott said. C'mon, least gimme an evaluation. You 'gainst me, Gambit urged. "Let's see you punch this bag."

Remy stared at him in amazement. He got t' be kidding! he thought. "Y' wan' me t' what, homme?"

"Punch the bag," Scott said patiently, wanting to get some idea of the kid's form.

Gambit moved forward and perfunctorily punched the bag. Scott shook his head.

"No, that's not right. You have to get some force behind it." Scott demonstrated, pounding the bag with satisfaction.

"Who normally teach dis class?" Gambit asked skeptically. Scott reddened.

"I'm fully qualified to teach self defense," he snapped.

"It's Wolverine, non?" Gambit pressed, raising an eyebrow.

"Just punch the bag," Scott said sharply. It was all the confirmation Gambit needed that his guess was right.

"Dis style wrong f' me," he informed Scott, punching at the bag to little more effect. Scott held his temper, but barely.

"I think it would be a good idea for you to work with Bobby," Scott decided tightly. "He's fairly advanced, and can help you along."

"Dis stupid, Summers," he muttered as Scott turned his back. But, his voice of reason spoke up, he'd prob'ly have realized dat dis is wrong f' y' if y' hadn' goaded him. Now he jus' t'inking 'bout bein' angry. If you'd tol' him y' could fight, y' mighta got somewhere. Remy grinned. But de look on his face . . .

Scott talked briefly to Bobby, then the younger boy came over to where Gambit waited. "You ready?" he asked.

"D'pends," Gambit retorted. "What're we doin'?"

"Summers wants us to run through basic attack and defense."

"I can do dat," Gambit said impatiently. "Why don' we do somet'in' fun, 'stead?" he suggested, looking around at the various weapons up on the wall. He skimmed past the swords as unthinkable. The last time he'd held one, Belladonna's brother, Julien, died at his hand over a stupid challenge of honor. Because of a sword, he was banished from New Orleans and his Guild. His eye lit on the bo staffs along the wall -- much better. "How 'bout de bo?"

Bobby shook his head. "That's more advanced," he insisted regretfully. "You'll get there, but you have to learn the basics first."

"I know how t' fight," he repeated.

"Gambit, I know you think you do, but trust me, this is completely different from getting into a fist fight at school."

Gambit glared at him. "Y' ain' listenin' t' me. I know how t' fight."

Bobby shot him a pitying look as a chime sounded. "Look, it's time for the danger room session. We'll talk about this later."

"Danger room?" Gambit asked. That sounded better.

"It's where we practice hand to hand and controlling our powers," Bobby explained. "Some of the stuff in there are solid holograms, but a lot of it is mechanical. It's easy to get hurt in there if you aren't careful."

Gambit's eyes lit up. "Let's go, den."

Bobby frowned. "I told you, you aren't advanced enough to do this yet. You just started today."

"Bobby, will y' listen t' me? I can handle m'self." Gambit's eyes glowed with pent up frustration, and Bobby unconsciously stepped back.

"Even if you were, everyone has to be cleared by Scott or Wolverine before they go in." Bobby turned and followed Jean, John, Storm, Kitty, Rogue, Jubilee, and Christian into the danger room. Gambit caught up to Scott right before he went in.

"Summers," he called. Scott turned, still irritated at him. "Can I join y' in dere?" he gestured at the danger room.

Scott sighed. "Gambit, you need more experience." Bobby, lingering right ahead of Scott, smirked.

"I can handle m'self. I have enough experience," Gambit insisted, subconsciously fingering his pack of cards.

"I know you think you do . . ." Scott started.

"Why do y' keep tellin' me dat?! I know what kind o' experience I got." He glared at Scott and Bobby, then spat out, "Can I 'least watch in dere, if y' won' let me fight?"

Scott shook his head. "You might get hit by someone accidentally. Gambit, we'll talk about this later. Right now I have a practice." He turned and shut the door behind him, leaving Gambit fuming on the outside.

Stupid, he thought darkly. Dey have no idea what I can do, an dey don' even listen when I tell 'em de t'rut'! He glared at the computerized lock for a long moment, then set about overriding it. If they didn't believe him, he'd prove it!

Scott saw him first from where the students were grouped in the center of the room. They were surrounded by various apparitions that attacked randomly, pushing the team to the utmost.

"What are you doing?!" Scott shouted angrily. "You're going to be hurt. Get out!" Sure enough, several of the creatures were turning towards him. Gambit let the door slide shut behind him. His eyes glowed fiercely, unnerving in their intensity, and he shot them a devil-may-care grin as he telescoped his bo out. He dropped into a roll as the first of the cat-sized flying creatures came at him. He came up with several rocks in hand, charging them to eerie brilliance before throwing with deadly accuracy at the flying beasts. Where they impacted, the rocks exploded violently and what was left of the things fell to the ground in pieces. Not pausing, Gambit moved into a sprint straight for one of the large, grounded beasts. He dodged its mechanical, rope-like tentacles, and his charged cards flashed out, impacting into the beast hard enough to stagger it. He flipped into the air over its head, and landed easily on the other side. He spun, spatial sense tracking more of the flying creatures behind him. As he spun, he flung his cards at the flyers, noting the impact before using his momentum to bring his bo around underneath the land-bound creatures feet.

It dropped, and while it was down, Gambit touched it long enough to partially charge it. He sprang away, tentacles whipping around him, knowing he didn't have long enough to completely charge the mechanical beast, but hoping what he had done was enough as a volley of charged rocks went towards it. He dove backwards as charge met charge in an explosion big enough to shake the danger room. Coming out of his backwards roll, he landed next to Scott.

Scott scowled and ordered the program to end. Gambit grinned at him smugly.

"Don' know how t' fight, do I?" Scott glared at him and wondered what else he was hiding. He'd said not a word about his past, the telepaths couldn't read him, according to Jean, and now it turned out he was an alpha class mutant who knew how to fight in a combat situation. Who was he?

"You lied about what you could do, you didn't tell us what kind of fighting experience you had, and you distracted my students in the middle of a dangerous training exercise. Someone could have been seriously hurt by your complete disregard for procedure." Gambit glared back at Scott through the tongue lashing.

"In a real battle, all de bad guys're goin' t' tell y' ahead o' time everyt'ing dey're bringin', ain' dat right? Dere ain' goin' t' be any surprises in de real t'ing, 'course not," he scoffed, sarcasm lacing his voice. His eyes had yet to stop glowing.

"They aren't ready . . ."

"Oh, like I wasn' ready?" Gambit shot back.

"That's different," Scott glowered. "You deliberately misled us."

"I tried t' tell y' I could fight," Gambit argued.

"No, you didn't," Scott said, frustrated. "You let me believe you couldn't even hit a punching bag right, then didn't bother to give any evidence beyond a childish insistence that you could fight when you did admit you could. Technically, you might be able to fight, but you haven't got a clue how to act as a part of a team."

Gambit stiffened. "Don' t'ink I need your team, mon ami."

"And when you're all alone against a crowd of the Friends of Humanity who want nothing more than you dead?" Scott argued.

"Dat's my whole life, homme, an' I'm still here. Where was y' team when I was livin' on de streets, 'fraid t' raise m' head so some guy bigger dan me wouldn' beat me bloody 'cause o' m' eyes? I know how t' fight, Summers; I been doin' it every day o' m' damn life."

Scott was silent for a moment, taking in Remy's outburst. "Are you going to do that for the rest of your life? Live on your own? Run and fight until you've forgotten anything else?"

"If I have t'," Remy acknowledged with a bitter smile.

"You don't," Scott insisted. "That's what this is about! Coming together to fight for peace -- for the freedom not to run."

"Dat's a nice dream, mon ami," Gambit said softly, wearily. "I hope y' don' find out 's nothin' but ashes. All I've know o' peace is de war we don' see."

"Gambit, don't you understand? It doesn't have to be that way!"

"How else it goin' t' be?" Gambit demanded. "De rest o' humanity will suddenly discover dat dey don' really hate mutants after all, an' we'll all sing, hold hands, an' sway 'n a circle? Dey want us dead, an' dose dat don' wan' t' kill us wan' us as far away from dem as dey can get us. It ain' gonna get better, Scott; dere's no magical fix. Dey gonna hate us 'til dey find somet'ing better t' hate."

"Stop, both of you," Ororo interceded, stepping forward. "Cyclops, leave him be. He has a right to think as he does, however much the rest of us may disagree."

"He does," Scott conceded. "He does not have a right to lie to us when my students may be injured because of it. His disruption today in practice was dangerous and reckless, Storm."

"Then it is as much my fault as his. He all but told me earlier that he could fight and I didn't follow up on it. He told you and Bobby both, and neither of you gave his word much weight. Were I in his position, I might well have done the same."

Scott ran a hand through his hair, then shrugged. "All right, let's just drop it. Gambit will be a part of team practices from now on, if that's what he wants." Gambit nodded. "I'm going to hit the showers."

Storm and Jean watched him for a moment, then by mutual consensus left the group as well.

"Storm," Gambit called. Ororo turned, watching him questioningly. He shrugged. "Jus' checkin'." She smiled indulgently and went to catch up with Jean. As soon as the adults were gone, Gambit was beset by his fellow students.

"Why didn't you tell us what you could do?" Bobby accused. Gambit grinned unrepentantly.

"What be de fun in dat, mon ami? B'sides, when I did, y' didn' b'lieve me."

"Not about that -- well, about that, too -- but about your powers!" Bobby said excitedly. "That was amazing! Where'd you learn?"

"On de streets at first." The 'to survive' went unspoken, when he first used his empathy to bolster his fists. "Seemed like a useful t'ing wit' all de people ready t' spit on me 'cause I had de devil's eyes." Unwillingly, his thoughts went back to the Thieves' Guild and Jean-Luc's teachings. "Remy, y' need t' know dis. Y' could run inta trouble on de job -- y' shouldn't, if y' plan right, but sometimes chance take a hand -- o' y' could run inta de Assassins. Better y' can defend y'self, and do it usin' all y' talents, includin' dat mutant one." He learned because Jean-Luc told him to; he pushed himself because he didn't want anyone to be able to hurt him like they had on the streets before he learned to fight back. He'd promised himself he'd never be vulnerable, especially since he was a mutant -- therefore a target of every bigot the law turned a blind eye to -- and the Thieves were at "peace" with the Assassins. He learned of peace from the Guild -- peace was the war they pretended not to fight. The dead were dead just the same.

"Where'd you get that kind of control over your power?" Bobby asked, unaware of the touchy subject. Gambit flinched away from the memory of gaining control. Was it ever worth the price?

"I didn' have much choice. Power like mine, y' lose control, y' end up sittin' on a bomb." I was endangerin' Pere an' de Guild. I didn' have a choice. I had t' do it. I had t' go t' him -- but dey'd never understand dat, he rationalized to himself, pushing the memories down brutally.

"Kitty's the only one of us who has full control," Bobby admitted. "Well, and Chris, but his doesn't actually need control. He just is. Professor Xavier says John and I still aren't living up to our potential, and neither of us do better than tricks or brute force. Jubes loses control when her temper goes . . ."

"Hey!" Jubilee interjected, annoyed.

". . . and Sam . . ."

"Let's just say Ah take off in one direction, an' that's the direction Ah go -- generally until Ah hit a wall," Sam interrupted. "It's a good thing Ah cain't be hurt as long as Ah'm blastin'."

"An' Ah'll take yor mind right outa ya if Ah touch ya," Rogue told him softly.

Gambit shrugged. "Dere's always a price t' pay f' learnin' control," he said softly. I jus' hope none o' y' pay mine, he wished fervently. "I'm goin' t' catch up wit' 'Roro an' find out what m' schedule is."

St. John grinned, forgetting the somber mood. "Just to find out what your schedule is?" he asked suggestively.

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Something you're not telling us about you and our teacher?"

"Have you got a crush on Storm?" Jubilee jumped in, delighted.

"I think he does," Bobby smirked. "Isn't that so sweet?"

An' me a married man, Gambit thought, but there was a hint of sadness. He'd loved Belladonna once, but he'd known her too well to ask her to leave when he came with. She loved her Guild more than him, as he loved his Guild enough to leave her. He hid his pain behind a familiar leer.

"Bobby, y' wouldn't know what t' do wit' a woman if y' did manage t' get one t' go out wit' y'."

"Neither would you!" Bobby shot back.

"Dat so? I'd prove y' wrong, but I never kiss 'n tell." With the last word, Gambit walked away.

***

Professor Xavier sat at his desk, listening carefully to Jean's account of what had happened in the danger room.

"So not only is he alpha class, but he's dangerous," Xavier summed up.

Jean nodded. "But he's in control, Professor. He fights . . . it's amazing to watch. I'd like to know who trained him, actually. I'd say he could probably hold his own with or against any member of our team."

"It concerns me that he mislead us about the nature of his mutation," Xavier mused.

"He never actually lied, Xavier. He let you draw your own conclusions. He was playing it safe, not giving away all his advantages. I get the feeling he hasn't had a pleasant life. I don't think I'd want to talk about it either," Jean argued, leaning forward.

"He's charmed you, hasn't he?" Xavier asked with a slight smile. "You and Ororo -- both so quick to defend him to me. Believe me, Jean, I don't need you to. I have no intention of turning him out."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I called back Wolverine. He's the one who found the boy in the first place. He and Gambit . . . remind me of each other. I think it would do Gambit good to have Wolverine here. Wolverine can probably relate to him better than the rest of us, from what little Gambit has let slip about his past. Wolverine's close enough that he should be back by tomorrow afternoon at the latest."

Jean bit her lip slightly. "Professor, are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Do you have reservations?" Xavier inquired, concerned.

"Only that Wolverine and Gambit under one roof will probably drive Scott to do something terrible to one or both of them," she grinned fondly. Xavier laughed.

"It will be good for him to get used to dealing with people who have no respect for his authority. He's already proven he can get Wolverine to follow him. I'm sure he'll succeed with Gambit as well."

"Until Wolverine shows up, what are we going to do with Gambit?"

"Send him to class. I have his placement scores, which are quite satisfactory. He's at or above a high school level in most of his subjects. You can put him right into classes with Bobby's group, if you'd like."

"I'll do that. He seems to be getting along fine with them," Jean agreed, then stood to leave.

"Jean?" Xavier halted her.

"Yes, Professor?"

"When Wolverine arrives, tell him I'd like to speak to him."

She nodded. "Yes, Professor."

***

Wolverine slid the bike into the parking spot in a reckless move that few without his skill, healing factor, and feral mindset would have dared. So Gambit had finally shown up -- and according to Xavier was giving Cyke the headache Wolverine had hoped. That alone made it worth not mentioning meeting up with the young thief the last time he was here, though he wouldn't have anyway. If he was right about the kid, LeBeau probably hadn't said much, if anything, about his past. Thieves were like that, and no matter what else he was, LeBeau was a thief. Wolverine hoped Gambit had the sense not to steal from telepaths, but he'd talk with LeBeau anyway.

He knew Xavier would want to talk to him immediately, but he had his priorities. It didn't take him long to find which classroom Marie was in, and he pushed open the door with a complete disregard for the class in session. The teacher glared at him, but he ignored the man in favor of his little Rogue.

"Wolvie!" she cried, delighted, jumping up from her desk to come fling her arms around his neck. He hugged her tightly, then reluctantly set her down to get a good look at her.

"Ya look good, darlin'. Ya cut yer hair while I was gone?"

"Yeah, do ya like it?" she asked, grinning and touching the now shoulder length cut.

"Absolutely. All these boys remember that if they hurt ya, I'll kill 'em, right?" He glared at the rest of the classroom, the very image of paternal threat. Bobby and St. John contrived to look as innocent as possible, and Sam looked affronted.

"Ah would nevah, sir," he stated, indignant. "Rogue's a lady."

"An' a lady d'serve t' be treated wit' respect, non?" Gambit added mischievously, not looking any different from the last time Wolverine had seen him -- even the same damn brown trench coat. "I'll take care o' her for y', Wolvie," he offered.

Wolverine smiled darkly. "I see ya made it, Gumbo. If ya steal her heart, I'll feed ya yers. If ya call me 'Wolvie' again, I'll do it anyway." He was only half joking.

"Now, mon ami, is dat any way t' speak t' an ol' friend?" Gambit asked innocently, undismayed by Wolverine's threat. "You 'n me, we go out f' a couple o' beers an' a game o' poker, catch up on ol' times."

Wolverine laughed. "Yer too young ta drink, Cajun."

Gambit shrugged. "Dat never stopped me b'fore," he rationalized.

"I'm sure it hasn't. We got things ta talk about anyway. I'll find ya when yer done with classes." Wolverine turned his attention back to Marie. "I've gotta check in with Xavier. I'll see ya 'round, Marie."

Rogue nodded, and returned to her seat. Wolverine watched her for a moment longer, then left. He had a talk with Xavier to see to.

Wolverine didn't pause outside the door to Xavier's office. Not bothering to knock, he entered and dropped into one of the chairs. Xavier looked up from the papers on his desk and raised his eyebrows, ignoring Wolverine's rude behavior.

"Figured ya'd want ta see me," Wolverine grunted in explanation.

"Ah, yes," Xavier agreed.

"This is about the Cajun, ain' it," Wolverine assumed.

"The Cajun?" Xavier smiled slightly. "Yes, this is about Gambit. Where did you meet him, and more importantly, why didn't you tell me you were sending me another student?"

Wolverine chuckled. "Met the kid down in New Orleans tracing a lead. Took a look at his eyes and figured he was one a' us. I told him if he wanted it, he had a place here. If he wanted it, he'd come. If not, kid shoulda been left alone."

Xavier nodded. "I can understand that, but I would have appreciated at least knowing he might show up, or something about him. We don't even know his name."

Wolverine laughed. "Bet that's killin' Cyke. Before ya ask, yes, I know his name, an' don't even think about peekin'. Kid's name's his own business. His past's his own business. If he wants ta start over, I say let him, but give him privacy."

Xavier sighed, and agreed. Gambit's past, while intriguing, was not the reason he wanted to speak to Logan. "I would appreciate it, Logan, if you would keep an eye on him while he's here. I don't know how well he'll fit in with the other students, considering what little he's told us. Gambit has a very . . . pessimistic mindset, and little idealism for a boy his age."

"And ya think it'd do him good ta be 'round me?" Logan asked, grinning wolf-like.

"Logan," Xavier said patiently, "you're the reason he's here. That makes him your responsibility."

"Don't think so, Chuck, not 'cause I told him about the school. I'll have a talk with him, though."

"You like him, don't you?" Xavier asked. Logan shrugged.

"Kid's got guts, even if he does have an attitude. See ya 'round, Xavier. I'll talk ta Gambit for ya."

***

"What did y' wan' t' talk t' me 'bout?" Remy asked, lounging comfortably on the ground next to Logan. They were sitting on the lawn of the mansion, the trees providing a convenient backrest. Logan lit his cigar and inhaled, blowing the smoke up.

"Wanted ta make sure ya weren't about ta try anything funny here. If ya steal anything, yer gonna have a bunch a' pissed off mutants after ya."

Remy didn't seem offended by Wolverine's warning. He just shrugged and lit up a cigarette. "Y' said if I ever need help, I come here. I'm here. Not gonna jeopardize dat now, but m' past's still not 'xactly de type o' t'ing I wan' dem t' know 'bout. M' chance t' start over, neh? Can' go back t' N' Orleans, an' don' have anywhere else I wanna be."

LeBeau was sincere, Logan could tell that. "Okay, kid. I can understand that."

"Y' tell Xavier 'bout me?" LeBeau asked, watching Logan out of the corner of his eye.

"No, but that don't mean much. He could a' pulled it outa my head, or yours."

"But he can' call me dat wit'out admitting he was in m' head, neh? 'Sides, I had a telepat' teach me t' psy-block. Xavier don' get anyt'ing I don' want him to."

Logan nodded, not pressing LeBeau about the mysterious telepath. He changed the subject instead. "Those things'll kill ya, kid," he warned, waving negligently at the cigarette in Remy's hand. Remy chuckled. There was no reprimand in Logan's tone.

"So Jean tol' me. Right after 'Roro tol' me it was a disgustin' habit and Cyke yelled at me f' bein' a 'bad influence' on de kids."

"Yeah, I got that speech too. Paid 'bout as much attention to it as you have."

Remy grinned, but didn't respond. It was dark before the two returned to the mansion. Remy walked back towards the boy's wing and Wolverine went wherever it was he slept. He passed Ororo on her way to her loft room.

"Hey, Stormy," Gambit greeted.

Storm stopped abruptly and turned to glare at him. "Do not call me that," she demanded, outraged.

Remy grinned, delighted. "Whatever y' say, Stormy, but if Rogue can get 'way wit' callin' Wolverine 'Wolvie', why can' I call a belle like y' 'Stormy'?"

Storm hid a smile, slightly amused in spite of herself. Many men never bothered to flirt with her, put off by the chill control she of necessity kept on her emotions. "Do not start with me. I will not be charmed about this. You will address me as 'Storm' or not at all." Amusing or not, this . . . nickname . . . was unacceptable.

"Oui, Stormy," Remy agreed maddeningly. With a glare he was sure she didn't mean, Storm spun and walked away. Remy laughed softly, counting it a victory, as he returned to his room.

The next morning, Remy went to the "self defense class" eagerly. Wolverine was back, so Summers wouldn't be teaching, to his relief. Bobby, walking beside him, was nowhere near as enthusiastic.

"Aw, man," Bobby complained. "Wolverine's back."

"What so bad 'bout dat?" Remy asked slyly. Bobby stared over at him incredulously.

"Are you nuts? He's a bastard when he fights. Not that he isn't other times, but he can get away with it in there. The professor even says it's good for us! I had bruises for a week the last time he was here," Bobby said, aggrieved.

Remy snorted. "Just wait," Bobby threatened. "You haven't had one of his special 'training sessions' yet."

Wolverine noticed them as soon as they came through the door. His smile was distinctly anticipatory as he waved them over. Remy raised an eyebrow as they drew closer.

"What d' y' wan' me t' do, homme?" he questioned.

"Cyke said ya did good in the danger room yesterday. I wanna see what ya can do. We'll do this in the danger room so no one gets hurt. Call it a 'special training session'," he added with a sardonic grin for Bobby, who was the picture of innocence.

"What rules?"

"There are none. Use yer powers, or don't. Anything goes short of killing or takin' off a limb," Wolverine said confidently. With his healing factor, there was little Gambit could do to him that he couldn't recover from.

"Let's go den," Gambit said, moving into the room. He had decided not to wear the t-shirt outfit he'd worn yesterday, going instead with the look Wolverine had first seen him in. The black kevlar bodysuit and trench coat were familiar, but Gambit had added the armor that covered his chest and his half mask. He pulled out his bo and extended it, grasping it lightly in hands covered by half gloves.

Bobby watched them enter. "Oh man, this I have to see," he commented, and headed for the control room, followed by Rogue. Jean, watching over the practice, looked up as they entered.

"Just watching," Bobby explained, coming up behind her to see the screens. The danger room had been transformed into a labyrinth of stones that rose anywhere from eight to ten feet in the air. Large, open spaces were visible where the natural pattern of the barricades retreated enough to make a good combat area. Above the maze by a good ten feet hung a network of branchlike, concealing rafters hung with pseudo-leaves. Occasionally, the higher level dropped near enough to allow an easier access. Gambit and Wolverine stood near the entrance, tensed to fight. Gambit nodded to him, and Wolverine's claws shot out.

With a blur of motion, Gambit flung three charged cards into the ground at Wolverine's feet, forcing him to retreat slightly and spraying dirt from the created floor into the air. During Wolverine's momentary distraction, Gambit sprinted into the maze. He went high immediately, clearing the ten feet to the top of the wall, and then the next ten up into the rafters, easily. Wolverine gonna track me by m' scent, Gambit remembered. I prob'ly better assume his ot'er senses are jus' as sharp. Dose claws'll be nasty t' deal wit'. I better avoid closin' wit' him 'less I have to. If I spread dis fight all over de room, all dis fresh scent'll make it possible t' hide if I do it right.

Wolverine sprang up into the second level behind him, and Gambit spun, bo already twirling to block the shorter man's attack. Adamantium claws crashed against adamantium bo with a strength that jarred Gambit's arms. Damn, he strong, Gambit realized. Better divert de blows 'stead o' meetin' 'em again. I'll last longer, maybe be tricky enough t' catch him. Gambit changed his style to knocking the claws to the side, or avoiding them all together. He lashed out with his leg, attempting to catch Wolverine in the ribs. Wolverine blocked the blow, but did not, as Gambit anticipated, attempt to score the leg with his claws. Gambit charged several cards and allowed them to explode near Wolverine, careful not to hit the man but hoping to knock him off guard.

"Stop pullin' yer punches, kid," Wolverine growled. "I gotta healin' factor."

"I will when y' stop pullin' yours," Gambit retorted. In response, Wolverine slashed forward with his claws. Gambit barely moved in time to avoid injury. He laughed wildly. "Dis more like it!"

He flung the cards again, this time directly at Wolverine, forcing him to back off slightly to avoid the explosions. Gambit pressed the attack, but Wolverine regained his balance and landed two telling blows. Eyes glowing with mad joy, Gambit dropped through the level and plummeted the twenty feet to the ground. He landed with ease, then took off running again in a new direction. Again and again he and Wolverine met in a flurry of blows. Each time, Gambit would break away and run, re-engaging at a different spot, until he judged that Wolverine was no longer relying on his nose at all, but on Gambit's predictability. Engage high, then go low. Engage low, then go high. Ignore the middle level completely, and never use the same level in consecutive engagements.

Gambit dodged Wolverine, and sprinted around the corner of the maze. Immediately, he went to the second level, then leapt the gap and went down again on the far side of the second wall. Wolverine went high, expecting Gambit to be there, and Gambit returned to the tops of the walls. Sighting where Wolverine when up, he snapped five cards to directly underneath where Wolverine stood. The supports collapsed, and Wolverine fell through. Gambit was already moving, closing the difference to where Wolverine would land. He dodged through the falling debris effortlessly as Wolverine tried to right himself so he'd land on his feet, though he was still dazed from the explosions directly under his feet. He hit the floor with a bruising thud, and Gambit brought his bo around immediately to rest lightly on Wolverine's throat. If he pressed, he could crust Wolverine's throat easily.

"Bang," he commented, grinning. "Y' dead."

Wolverine lay there, feeling his body heal his recent wounds.

"Care ta go again, Gumbo?" he growled.

"Absolutely, mon ami," Gambit acquiesced, removing his bo and allowing Wolverine to get to his feet.

"Jeannie, ya up there?" Wolverine asked the air.

"Yes, Logan," Jean's voice came through the hidden speakers.

"Change the program, would ya? Give us a dojo, nothin' but mats." Wolverine grinned viscously when Jean complied. "All right, kid, let's go."

It was a close fight. Gambit was good, but without the dual advantages of surprise and being able to manipulate his environment, Wolverine's skill and experience were more difficult to counter. Wolverine's healing factor complicated the fight as well. He accepted with a harsh grunt blows that would have taken out another man easily and reciprocated as if he'd never been hit. By contrast, when Wolverine managed to land a blow or threw him so even his lightning reflexes couldn't help him land on his feet, he felt it. Eventually, he slowed, exhaustion burning through his limbs. Wolverine closed with him one last time and flung him into a wall. Gambit lay on the floor, slightly dazed and breathing heavily. Wolverine approached. Did Gambit see some hint of worry or concern in the man's face?

"Ya okay, kid?" Wolverine asked gruffly. Gambit nodded, but didn't spare the breath to speak. "Ya did good, better than I expected, even after what One Eye said." Wolverine offered him a hand up, but Gambit waved it away with a pained smile.

"T'ink I jus' stay here, t'anks," he said wearily. "Dat's more han' t' han' den I done in a long time."

Wolverine laughed and hauled him to his feet anyway.

***

It took Gambit three weeks to figure out why the structure of the building looked so odd to him, three weeks in which he found himself in a place that felt like "home". It had been over a year since he left New Orleans and the only family he'd ever known. Even traveling the world and making -- stealing -- his fortune hadn't filled the empty spot in his soul that had once held Pere's proud smile and rarely shone open affection, Henri's quietly loyal love, Lapin's pranks, and Tante Mattie's gentle, motherly care. Instead, Kitty and Jubilee would flirt good naturedly with him. Bobby and St. John dragged him several pranks that should have gotten them caught but somehow never did.

He and Wolverine would spend hours playing poker, smoking and drinking until Scott would come in and yell at them because Remy was too young to drink, they shouldn't be smoking in front of the kids, and what were they thinking inviting his girlfriend to play strip poker with them? Wolverine would wink at him and Gambit would smirk, reveling in his bad boy image, and claim he could drink Scott under the table. Storm would intervene on their behalf, persuading Scott that they were simply relaxing, and better they did it here than in a bar somewhere. Then she would calmly inform Gambit and Wolverine that smoking was filthy and not permitted in the house under any circumstances right before her localized downpour extinguished the offending objects and soaked the errant men.

After the first time, when Storm expressed her disapproval, Logan and Remy would put out their respective tobacco products before she could arrive at the 'downpour' stage. Remy smiled briefly at the memory. The professor had told them all quite firmly that they could clean up the flooded rec room themselves. He, Wolverine, and Storm had all spent the rest of the night sopping up the water. Wolverine had watched in amusement as Remy and Ororo had teased each other mercilessly, a side he'd never seen to the usually reserved Storm. Cleanup had gone well until Remy addressed the former goddess as "Stormy" once too often. High speed winds had whipped through the room, drying the floor and devastating the rec room. They had spent another hour righting everything.

It was good to have a home again, which made him relax more than he would normally. He was not quite as observant as he would have been if he was casing the mansion, and so it was three weeks before he realized that the support structure and design of the building hinted at an extensive complex beneath the mansion itself. Curiosity aroused, he began to look for signs of a way into the underground rooms. His highly developed thief's skills served him well and he located the concealed door with ease once he began searching.

Gambit slid open the door slowly, just enough to slip through into the elevator. The anxiety over being caught, familiar as his skin, sped his heart and made him feel alive. The elevator descended several levels before the doors opened again. He could feel a draft from the ventilation pressing his coat to him gently as he stepped into the brightly lit room. The elevator door shut behind him, and he moved stealthily down the hall. In the room at the end, Wolverine sat with his back to Gambit, engrossed by the images on the screen.

"I let ya sneak up on me once, kid. It ain't gonna happen again," Wolverine spoke without turning around. There were times he suspected Xavier had designed the ventilation system with special consideration for scents. The slight draft had brought Gambit's scent straight to him. There was no immediately acknowledgment from the thief, then Gambit spoke.

"What is dis place, Wolverine?"

"It's the base a the X-men," Wolverine answered, turning to look at the kid.

"Henh?" Gambit's ignorance was obvious.

"Damn heroes, the bunch of 'em. Cyke's one, so's Jean and that weather-witch o' yours. Even me," Wolverine added, sounding irritated about having to group himself with the heroes.

"Dat 'splains de code name. So de school trains de next generation o' super heroes?" Gambit concluded.

"Ya got it."

Gambit was silent. "I'm no hero, Wolverine."

"Me neither, kid, but some things gotta be done. 'Least these guys are tryin' ta make the world better."

They both stiffened as Scott entered. His gaze moved from Wolverine to Gambit, and his eyes narrowed.

"What's he doing down here?" Cyclops demanded.

"I found de door in an' came down on m' own," Gambit explained. "Wolverine didn' have anyt'ing t' do wit' it."

"No one but the team knows how to get in," Cyclops glowered. Wolverine chuckled.

"Kid's a sneak thief, Cyke. What did you expect?" Though I told the kid not ta pull anything funny while he was here. He ain't exactly stealing anything, but he's gonna get a lecture, Wolverine thought.

"Sneak thief?" Cyclops turned on Gambit. Gambit forced himself to meet Scott's eyes, wanting to curse Wolverine for telling Scott so bluntly. Couldn't the man have said Gambit found his way here by accident?

"Oui," Gambit admitted, hostile behind his concealing sunglasses and slouched demeanor.

"And the professor knows nothing about this?" Scott bit out. Gambit shook his head.

"Not 'less he pulled it out o' m' head."

"Gambit, I want you to wait in your room," Cyclops instructed, forcing himself to be calm. "I'm going to talk to the Professor and he'll decide what to do with you."

Wolverine growled at that, but Gambit nodded. As he left, he could hear Cyclops snap, "What were you thinking sending us a thief?"

Wolverine's reply was lost as Remy took off for his room at a sprint. There was no place for a thief.

He was barely out of breath when he reached his room. He slammed the door open, ignoring Christian's startled query. Gambit packed quickly, face blank. Stupid, t' t'ink you'd find a place here. Stupid t' come. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Y' should know better dan dis by now. Dere's no home for a mutie t'ief, he snarled at himself.

"Gambit!" Christian interjected, breaking into his thoughts. "What are you doing?"

"Leavin'," Gambit answered curtly, not pausing in his packing. "Dere's no place f' me here." He swung the bag over his shoulder and strode to the door. He had no intention of waiting around for his holiness Scott Summers and the infallible Professor Xavier to kick him out, or worse. Gambit knew when he wasn't wanted. He was aware of Christian following, arguing that he didn't have to leave.

Go 'way, he thought back at the other boy, but didn't say it aloud. It was somewhat appeasing that at least someone didn't want him to leave. Outside the mansion, he headed away from where Bobby and Rogue were sitting together. No need t' make dis harder dan it is. Unfortunately for him, they heard Christian.

Rogue looked over, concerned, and saw him walking away with a bag on his shoulder. She said something softly to Bobby, and he mimicked her stare. Bobby frowned, then came towards Gambit with Rogue on his heels. Gambit cursed silently. Bad enough to have to leave; he didn't need to do it looking like and idiot with three people trailing after him like mutant puppies. He turned to face Bobby and Rogue, shoulders straightening unconsciously in response to a foreseen conflict.

"What's up, Gambit?" Bobby asked, making it obvious he knew exactly what Gambit was doing.

"He's leaving," Christian answered for him, his look challenging. "No reason, just leaving."

Gambit shrugged nonchalantly. No big deal, Bobby. Jus' walk 'way. Don' make dis hard f' me.

"Runnin's not th' answer," Rogue told him softly. "Believe me, sugah, Ah know. There's a place for ya here."

Gambit wouldn't meet her eyes. "No place f' me, chere." Dere's nowhere I b'long to. Not N' Orleans, not here, not ever, he thought.

"Aren't we friends, Gambit?" Bobby asked, hurt.

"Oui, but dat don' matter now. Time f' me t' move on. Maybe I'll see y' 'round sometime, neh?"

"I don't think so," a familiar voice spoke from behind him. Gambit spun, fear and adrenaline heightening his senses. He knew that voice, that invisibility. His cards were already charged by the time he faced the man, a gray skinned man with red eyes and a bloody diamond set into his forehead. The cards flew, but the impact was futile. The man, Sinister, raised his hand, shooting a bolt of yellow tinted energy at Remy. Gambit dodged to the side to avoid it and heard Christian cry out as the bolt impacted with him instead, hard enough to stun the invulnerable boy. Gambit felt a moment of regret, but his entire attention was now focused on Sinister. He knew only too well how useless his particular abilities were against the man, and the man was too good a telepath to be affected by his empathy, but Gambit had to try.

Gambit could hear Bobby asking a question, confusion in his voice, but ignored it in favor of sending another round of explosive cards at Sinister. A moment later, a wall of ice rushed at Sinister, proving that Bobby's particular talent was a work. Sinister's eyes narrowed angrily, and his next bolt went at Bobby. Bobby attempted to dodge, but he wasn't quite fast enough. The energy winged him, making him cry out. Rogue moved around, trying to get close enough to drain the man who'd attacked three of her friends despite her aversion to using her power. Sinister saw the movement and neutralized her with another bolt of energy. Christian was up again, but too unsteady to dodge the next three bolts that hit him. He cried out and fell, unmoving.

Gambit's eyes glowed as he looked around for something larger to charge. The noise should bring the teachers, or someone. There was nothing. He drew his knife, secreted away in a harness at the small of his back, charged it, and flung it at Sinister, aiming to kill. Sinister caught the knife in a bolt of energy, consuming it. Gambit's spatial sense went wild as someone rushed him from behind. He tried to dodge, flipping up and spinning in the air. A clawed hand snagged his leg and, with inhuman strength, dragged him back down. His last sight before he lost consciousness was of Sabertooth.

***

Wolverine sat across from the Professor, glowering in Cyclops' direction.

"All right," Xavier said, resigned, "what's the problem now?"

"Gambit's a thief," Cyclops stated. "He found his way into the lower levels."

"Has the kid stolen anything while he's here? Ya had any complains?"

"That's not the point!" Scott insisted, frustrated. "We had a right to know. You knew, and didn't tell us."

"He didn't have anywhere else to go, Cyke. Kid wanted a fresh start. Imagine him thinkin' he'd get it here," Wolverine snapped in disgust.

"Gentlemen," Xavier interjected quickly, before the situation could escalate. "Gambit's past is not of any importance, so long as he does not break the law while he is with us. However, Wolverine, this is something we should have known about. The mansion's security is compromised because of him. Still, I do not believe he means us harm. I'd like to talk with him. Where is he now?"

"I asked him to wait in his room until we decided what to do with him," Cyclops answered. Wolverine stilled, uneasy.

"What's ta keep 'im there, Fearless Leader?"

"You think he left?" Scott wondered.

"Would if I were him. Kids like that don' trust no one."

Xavier was silent, scanning the grounds telepathically. "I'm not picking up any thoughts from him, but Gambit has some way of making himself telepathically invisible."

Logan grunted. "Handy. Gumbo probably rabbitted. Thief gets good at runnin'."

"I'll go after him," Scott volunteered, anger subsiding. Why hadn't Gambit just been honest? They were good people. No one would have held his past against him.

"Ya'd probably do more harm than good, One-Eye," Logan snorted. "I'll go fetch him. I got Rogue ta come back, didn't I?"

"After getting her kidnapped --" Scott's retort was cut off by a cry from Xavier. Scott and Logan leapt to their feet.

"Professor! What's wrong?"

"The kids are under attack," Xavier gasped out. "Get up there. Christian's down, and Bobby. Now."

The two men ran from the room, up through the silent corridors, and outside just in time to see something collapse in on itself. There was no sign of Bobby or Christian. Wolverine paced forward, scenting the ground.

"Gambit was here with them, and Marie," the last came out as a furious growl. "Some stranger was here, smells odd -- like metal and drugs. Labs. Maybe a scientist." The beast was rising in him, goaded by half-shadowed memories of labs and the thought of his Marie in a scientist's hands. He traced the scene written in the dirt for a tracker to read.

"Gumbo put up a good fight. Christian went down right away, got up, and was hit again. Looks like Bobby was helping, and Marie was tryin' ta get the drop on him." Wolverine circled around the site. His nostrils flared as he recognized a hated scent. "Sabertooth," he spat, fists clenching. "He was here too. Took out Gambit, from the smell o' it. We'd better hope Chuck can find 'em with Cerebro, 'cause everyone who was here just vanished."

***

Remy returned to consciousness groggily. His wrists and shoulders ached from hanging by manacles, his head throbbed from the blow that had knocked him out, and the bitter aftertaste in his mouth left no doubt that he'd been drugged. Again.

Worst than any physical reminders of his failure was the absolute silence around him. There were no emotions fighting to intrude through his mental shields, no movement but what he could see, and no feel of energy in the inanimate objects that trapped him. It simply proved that, once more, Sinister had turned off his powers. The heavy collar around his neck was a taunting reminder. Once, when he'd been out of control, charging everything he touched, he'd been grateful for it. Now, the collar just made him sick.

He heard Bobby groan as he came around, rubbing his head and wincing at the residual pain. Unlike Gambit, he was not suspended from the wall -- probably because Sinister wasn't worried about trying to prevent him from picking the locks on handcuffs and collar. Not that his current situation would have thwarted Gambit much, but until he had a better idea of the situation, he would play it cool and trapped.

"Bobby," Gambit instructed, "see 'f Rogue and Christian are okay." Bobby did the best he could, but he didn't quite reach Rogue, or Christian on the far side of her. She lay closer to Christian than to Bobby with the little movement the chains allowed. Instinctively, Bobby tried to reach out with ice . . . and found himself unable to feel or draw on the Cold that always moved to his will before. He panicked.

"Gambit!"

"I know, Bobby," Gambit soothed. "Y' get used t' it after awhile."

"I don't want to 'get used to it'! How did this happen?" Bobby pulled against his chains, sure his Cold could snap them in a second if he could only recover his powers.

"Collar 'round y' neck," Gambit explained. "Won' come off 'till he wan' it to, an' prob'ly do somet'ing nasty t' y' if y' mess wit' it."

Bobby reached up, horrified, to touch the collar encircling his neck.

"Where did it come from?" he asked, shivering. Gambit thought he looked scared and didn't blame him. It wasn't his first time being held against his will -- though he would bet it was probably Bobby's -- and he was terrified. He knew Sinister, knew what kind of man he was. The chance of them all getting out of the labs alive was slim to nothing.

"Sinister made 'em. Uses 'em t' hold mutants who don' co-operate. Like us."

Bobby's fear was tempered by confusion. "Sinister's . . ."

"De nasty guy wit' de red t'ing in his head." Bobby smiled weakly at Gambit's description. The smile faded as he considered what Gambit's answers meant.

"Do you know him, Gambit?" Bobby's voice sounded accusatory, even though he hadn't meant it to. Gambit was chained here too.

It was on the tip of his tongue to lie, to deny ever knowing Sinister, but he doubted Sinister would play along with it. Since the room was undoubted bugged at the least, it would only give Sinister more ammunition against him. "He did a favor f' me once. T'ink it time I paid up," Gambit answered cynically. "He not 'xactly de best guy t' be in debt to."

Rogue, who had come around enough to hear Remy's last explanation, asked, "What hold's he got on ya, Gambit?" She sat up slowly, leaning back against the wall. She met his gaze firmly, without flinching.

Remy's expression tightened and he shook his head, refusing to answer. She watched him, exasperated. Remy shifted, trying to ease the ache along his back and shoulders.

"Y'okay?" Rogue asked.

Remy grimaced. "Been in worse, chere. Why don' y' see 'f Christian's all right?"

"What if Ah touch him?" she refused, pressing herself further into the wall as if it could hide her from the pain of drawing the life out of a person.

"Don' worry 'bout it," Gambit reassured her gently. "De collar turn y' power off."

Cautiously, Rogue reached out to the unconscious boy. Despite Gambit's assurances, she touched his arm where it was covered by the shirt. Old habits die hard, especially since whoever-he-was had taken her gloves away while she was unconscious. Christian didn't respond, so she nudged him a little harder. With a start, Christian awoke. Reacting to his last memory, he thrashed wildly.

"Christian!" Bobby shouted. "Calm down!"

Recognizing the voice, Christian stopped moving.

"Where are we?" he asked hoarsely.

"Sinister's labs," Gambit replied. "Y' prob'ly here 'cause o' me, an' I'm sorry f' dat. If y' go along wit' him an' don' fight, he prob'ly won' kill y'." Was it foolish to hope they'd take his advice?

"Scott will find us," Bobby said staunchly. "The Professor can track us. We'll get out of here."

Gambit looked up at the ceiling, smiling bitterly at the camera he knew was hidden there. "Dey don' even know where t' start."

***

Xavier emerged from the gigantic spherical metal room that housed Cerebro, the most reliable method for tracing mutants they had. Jean, Scott, Ororo, and Wolverine were waiting, a silent vigil until they knew for sure. The Professor shook his head.

"At least we know they're alive," he offered. "I made contact with Bobby's mind. They're in a lab." Jean paled, stricken by the thought of their students in a lab, experimented on like freaks. Scott put a reassuring arm around her.

"We'll get them out somehow," he told her, as disturbed by the thought as she was. She nodded acknowledgment.

"Bobby has no idea where he is beyond the lab." Xavier carefully didn't mention that the four were in chains, or the disturbing image of Gambit hung from a wall. "They've been unconscious for some time, which is doubtless why I couldn't reach any of them before. Most alarmingly is that they have some type of collar preventing them from using their mutant powers." Wolverine growled and Storm's lips tightened slightly. Outside, the wind picked up, whipping through the trees. "Bobby had the image of a gray-skinned man with a red, diamond shaped jewel in his forehead. From what I can tell, he thinks of the man as 'Sinister', though whether that's a name or simply his description I can't tell. Bobby believes, from what Gambit has said, that Sinister wants something from Gambit, and that Gambit owes this man something."

"So we find them," Ororo decided with serene confidence, "before this Sinister can harm Gambit or the other students."

"Yes," Xavier agreed emphatically. "I want a list of all the science and medical research labs in the area and major ones across the country who are interested in mutant research. Let's move."

***

Remy noticed almost immediately when Sinister showed up. His spatial sense might be blocked, but his thief's instincts were still firmly intact. Bobby noticed his sudden tension and followed his gaze to the ominous figure in the now open doorway. He pulled Rogue, who was sitting next to him for mutual comfort, a little closer. He wouldn't let Sinister hurt her.

"Well, Gambit, I see you have returned." His voice was as inhumanly cold as Bobby remembered.

"Nice o' y' to notice, Sinister," Remy snarled back sarcastically. "What d' y' wan'?"

"You," Sinister replied. Remy nodded, expecting that.

"So why dey here?" He gestured as well as he could towards the other children.

"Insurance, for the moment. Perhaps curiosity. When I no longer need them, I will return them to Xavier."

Remy laughed cynically. "Dat don' seem like y'."

"It's not," Sinister agreed. "However, you are far more valuable to me than they are. If you agree to return to me, releasing them is a small price."

"Why now? Why not seven years ago?"

"You were young then. Untrained and needing a family." Sinister said it clinically, as he would have stated a plant needed to be watered. "They don't want you now, but I do. You belong here, Gambit."

"Dey say I b'long wit' dem too," Remy said levelly. Not denying Sinister's claim, but not precisely agreeing either.

"Them? What can they give you that I cannot? Here you are among mutants, but we can push you to improve. We don't care who -- and what -- you are. You don't trust me, but you didn't trust them," Sinister said persuasively. "You didn't even tell them your name, R--"

"I don' tell dem yours if y' don' tell dem mine," Remy interrupted sharply.

"Very well," Sinister agreed, his benevolence at odds with what Remy knew of him. "As I said, you trusted them with neither your name, nor your past. You have nothing to hide from me. Join me."

Sinister watched LeBeau carefully, trying to follow his train of thought by his poker face. He briefly regretted teaching LeBeau to hide his thoughts -- though the alternative had been a continual bombardment of the distasteful emotions -- since the shields were based as much on LeBeau's will as on his empathic talent. Even with LeBeau in a restraining collar, he couldn't break the boy's shields -- at least not without letting him know his mind had been violated. As unsatisfying as it was, he had to settle for manipulating the boy through other means.

Remy was weak, now, Sinister contemplated. He needed a place to belong badly, and both the Thieves' Guild and the X-men had rebuffed him. For all his independence, he needed to belong and be considered part of a family. To that family he was unfailingly loyal. Sinister intended to have that loyalty. The Marauders were the perfect place for him. He could be reshaped in Sinister's own image.

"You need to belong, Gambit. To have a family. You belong here. I helped you once. I'll help you now. We're family. You are not a hero, Gambit; you're a thief. You look out for yourself. I can give you everything you need or desire. I ask you again, join me."

"I won' join a group o' murderers like Sabertooth," Remy insisted, but Sinister could tell he was unconvinced.

"You already are, Gambit. But with us, it doesn't matter."

"He's not a murderer," Bobby snapped, coming out of the entranced fascination with the conversation. Gambit and Sinister both stared at him in shock. The three students had been so silent listening that they had both forgotten about their audience.

Sinister's glare began to unnerve Bobby. Abruptly, Sinister moved to one of the consoles. He typed a program in rapidly, and one of the five foot by five foot screens filled with an image.

It was Remy, demon's eyes blazing, charging a theater in Seattle with his rogue power. The screams of the people inside as it exploded echoed in the lab. Remy's face became expressionless, but he flinched. How long he been watchin' me? he thought, sickened. The image changed to become Sabertooth holding Genevieve Darceneaux, the woman Gambit had seduced and claimed to love, and Henri LeBeau, his foster brother, over the edge of a building.

"Choose," the man-beast demanded. Gambit screamed silently. The creature would kill one of them simply because Gambit had beaten him to the necklace they were both after -- a necklace he had seduced Genevieve for. What choice was there between the woman he professed to love and the brother he did?

"Henri," Remy choked out. Sabertooth smiled darkly and released Genevieve to fall to her death. The scene changed to show Remy stabbing his wife's brother, Julien, in a pointless, archaic duel.

"And this was when you were old, Gambit. Should I show them the first person you killed? The people on the streets?"

"Non," Remy whispered, closing his eyes. He didn't want to see the hatred in Bobby's eyes, or Rogue's, or his pain-in-the-butt roommate, Christian's.

"You are no hero. You belong to me, with me. I have invested so much in you, cared for you when Jean-Luc and Henri were ready to turn you out to protect themselves from you. I'm your true family. You belong here."

Remy bowed his head. "Oui." One word. One damning word. They would never forgive him now.

"Gambit, don't!" Rogue shouted, recovering from the shock of seeing the brutal images. "Don't listen ta him! Ya one a' us."

"I'm what he say, chere. Liar, t'ief, murderer. Sorry, belle, so sorry, but 'least dis way y' go home."

"He's not gonna let us go, sugah! Not if we're the only thang keepin' ya in line."

Remy looked up at last. "Y' ain'." He turned towards Bobby as much as he was able. "Y' asked me, Bobby, where I learn' control He de one dat gave it t' me. I pay dat debt."

Bobby lunged to his feet, enraged. "Traitor!"

Remy nodded, hiding his pain. "Oui."

Sinister pressed a button, and two men in lab coats came in. "Remove this man from his bindings and treat his wounds."

"Yes, sir."

Sinister waited until Gambit had been removed from the room before turning his attention to his prisoners.

"What are ya goin' ta do to him?" Rogue demanded, glaring at Sinister. She was terrified, but she refused to back down. She'd been held by mutants equally scary, and she wouldn't let this freak of a scientist get the best of her.

"Such concern for a turncoat," Sinister tisk-tisked. "I don't think you understand your situation. Gambit does, very well. His goal is to survive. If you would do the same, then I suggest you cooperate."

"Nevah," she growled.

"Your name is Marie, is it not?" It wasn't a question, but him mocking her with his knowledge. "Called Rogue by your friends. You have a very fascinating ability, Marie, one with awesome potential for my work."

He gestured, and two more of the white coated men came forward. Christian and Bobby tried to stop them from taking Rogue, but, chained and collared as they were, only succeeded in attracting the men's negative attention. While both boys were on the ground, the struggling Rogue was dragged to one of the lab tables. Rogue tried to touch them, even knowing her power would do no good with the collar intact, but they were well prepared for accidental contact with gloves that went far up their arms and coat sleeves that went hung over the gloves. She screamed, enraged, as she was bound to the table with metal bands that tightened to a painful pressure, making it difficult to breath. With clinical precision, her clothes were cut away from her, leaving her skin bare. She trembled in rage and shame, but forced herself to stay silent, glad that Bobby and Christian, at least, had the kindness to look away. Sinister approached her, black gloves in place. He pressed a button on the small metal transmitter in his hand, and the collar's suppression field vanished.

"Such deadliness and power," he murmured, running a hand along her stomach. There was no sensuality in it, only a rough, scientific interest. His touch made her nauseous, but she was determined to endure until she had the chance to fight back. He would pay for this, she swore it.

"Bring in the other," Sinister ordered. Rogue stared at him, uncomprehending. He couldn't mean to . . .

The mutant was brought in, supported by two doctors. He was either drugged to insensibility or had been a prisoner so long he no longer resisted. Probably both, Rogue realized sickly.

"Proceed," Sinister ordered, and his body was place on top of hers. She screamed her anguish as their skin touched. His mind, nearly childlike with captivity, swirled into hers. She ruthlessly submerged him in her psyche, fighting to stay herself as his abilities and memories swamped her. Since her mutant ability had first activated with Cody's kiss, she had never been in so much contact with a living being. It drew his life-force from him more swiftly than she could remember it happening before, and it merged with her -- invaded her to the core of her soul and through every cell of her body. The husk above her stopped breathing, and she could feel the energy drain slow to a trickle. A moment later, she realized he was dead. They had let her kill him. Samuel, she remembered from his mind's touch. Samuel. She would remember him, hate for him. She would kill Sinister for this. Samuel's body was pulled off of her and she lay there, sobbing, the metal bands biting into her flesh with each gasped breath.

With growing fury, she used Samuel's power -- now her power -- for the first time. The metal shrieked against her as a previously unrealized strength tore it from the bed. She hovered in the air, ready to attack, when Sinister pressed the button on the transmitter again. Instantly, the field moved back into place, and she fell from the air with a startled cry.

Sinister was pleased. If he could figure out the specifics of her mutant talent, she would be invaluable to his research. If she can absorb a power, could she someday transmit one as well? he wondered. The possibilities were astounding! She could aid him by transferring a mutant talent from one person to another, or maybe even to multiple people. Maybe she could learn to absorb the power permanently without killing the original host -- assuming the absorption was permanent. If it was, she could be very useful indeed. He frowned slightly. But not with that will. If she was as promising as he hoped, she would have to be endowed with a more . . . co-operative . . . mindset. For now, he would observe her, then he would see what she could do with invulnerability or the power to control ice.

***

It took Gambit seconds to free himself from the suppression collar. Foolish and overconfident, they were, to leave his hands free. The two doctors who had accompanied him were easily neutralized and he took off at a run for where he remembered Sinister's security room was. Letting himself into the room, he quickly overrided the alarm settings and took manual control of the cameras. Scanning through the images of the complex, he came across one that made him pause, guilt surfacing.

It was a room full of cages.

He had left them once, knowing they were there. Sinister had promised him freedom, had given him control, in return for the opportunity to call in the debt someday. If he had tried to free the caged mutants, Sinister would have hunted them all down, and he would be in one of those cages now. He had chosen freedom, and damned his soul once more. He couldn't leave Bobby, Rogue, and Christian here, and he had no illusions that Sinister would free them. He owed Sinister, and Remy LeBeau was one who paid his debts. Sinister's prisoner's were his friends -- his last hope of having something pure and worth fighting for. They were his salvation. He would not allow them to stay in Sinister's hands. It went against everything Remy believed in to break his sworn word -- "M' word on m' blood, I'll pay de debt, Essex" -- even if a thief was supposed to have no honor.

M' honor f' deir lives . . . no choice dere. What's m' honor wort', a murd'rer like me? I won' leave dem here -- none o' dem, he vowed to himself.

It took Gambit ten minutes to rewire the cameras to loop and give him a clear route to the captive mutants, then another twenty to reprogram the computer to do what he wanted it too. The cameras showed Sinister still in with Bobby, Christian, and Rogue. Rogue was wearing a thin robe, like the ones Sinister gave to his experiments after they'd been on the table, but since she seemed to be unharmed, he refused to worry about it now. Whatever it is, I'll deal wit' it after I get her out o' here. I can get t' de cages now while Sinister's in wit' dem, den distract him an' get de kids out, Gambit decided. He left the room, following the memorized route to the cages. On the forgotten monitor behind him, Sinister came for Christian.

***

Rogue lay on the table, weeping, as Christian's body was dragged away. She could feel his invulnerability settling into her, smothering her with its protection. It hadn't protected Christian, not against her touch. There had been no enemy to fight -- simply a soul-stealing, painless touch -- and she had one more 'gift' to mourn.

She was bound again -- thick adamantium bars strong enough to hold even her strength. A moment later, Sinister turned the collar on again and placed her back beside Bobby. She wanted him to hold her, to comfort her, but he flinched away when she was rechained next to him. She didn't blame him. She could still feel Christian in her head, raging. Samuel had been so weak, his will destroyed by the drugs and the cage. His memories were shadows, once there, then vanished. Chris was liquid fire; she could feel his hate -- not against her, he knew she had no choice, but against Sinister. She could hear his voice in her head and tried to tell him she was sorry, so sorry, but he didn't hear her. She stared off at the corner of the lab, refusing to look at Bobby. Bobby, who would be next as soon as Sinister returned. She shivered, and raged.

***

The group was too large to escape unnoticed; Remy knew that immediately. He also knew there was no way he could leave any of them behind. The black haired, blue eyed woman calling herself Callisto helped him organize the mutants as well as they could. For some reason, the half-drugged, downtrodden mutants listened to her. Helping her was a large, furred blue mutant who introduced himself in a calm, gentle voice as Dr. Henry McCoy. Gambit nodded impatiently and told them to hurry up. As they left the room, he triggered the alarm. It ran through his re-programming, and the alarms in several other sections went off. Now he just had to get to Bobby, Chris, and Rogue before Sinister came back.

Remy knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped in the room. Rogue sat curled around herself in that damned white robe, crying softly. Bobby glared at him, hatred contorting his face. Christian was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Chris?" he asked immediately. Bobby rose to his feet, enraged.

"Dead because of you, traitor. Sinister forced Rogue to touch him."

"Oh, chere," Gambit whispered compassionately. She was too young to be a murderer, too young to hate her face every time she looked in a mirror. He moved to her side and took her hands.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed, jerking away.

"Chere," he soothed, "it wasn' y' fault. I gotta touch y' t' get dese chains off." She held rigid as he took her hand again and swiftly picked the lock, repeating the action with the other hand. "De collar too."

She almost protested, unwilling to risk having her powers back with him so near, but obediently turned her head to the side so he could get to the lock. She couldn't help them without her powers -- all of them. With Rogue freed, Gambit turned towards Bobby uncertainly. He expected the first thing Bobby would do when he had his hands free was hit him. To his surprise, Bobby only requested, voice tight with suppressed emotion, that he do the same to the collar. Gambit complied, and Bobby stood, ignoring him.

"Now we get out of here," Bobby stated flatly. Gambit nodded, and led the way towards the hangers and their only chance of getting away.

They almost made it. Blocking the way into the hanger stood Sinister, Sabertooth, and a group of mutants Gambit recognized from his previous stay with Sinister, the Marauders. There were two choices: fight their way through or surrender.

There was nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose, nothing to live for, and nothing to prove, Sinister knew. He could see that look in Gambit's eyes. He would fight and die rather than be what Sinister hoped. Sinister tried to convince him anyway.

"I'm disappointed, Gambit. I had hoped you would not be this foolish. Will you not reconsider? I will give you everything you have dreamed of."

"Y' t'ink y' can give me everyt'ing? Y' can' give me back m' soul," Gambit said grimly. Maybe I find a piece o' it wit' dem. Dey m' family now.

"Take them," Sinister ordered, and Gambit attacked.

It was a slaughter. Gambit fought with every ounce of skill he had trying to take out Sinister and the Marauders. He could see Bobby beside him sending wave after wave of ice at them. Rogue was battling with an intense, reckless fury that would have amazed Gambit could he spare the energy to think about it. It was a style more suited to Christian than to Rogue, who tried not to hurt anyone. And where had she gotten the ability to fly? Or throw a punch like a truck? He, Rogue, and Bobby were fighting their way through, but the twenty-three former prisoners, weak and unused to fighting, were dying. Gambit's face was masklike as he redoubled his efforts, but he couldn't be everywhere at once.

He remembered grabbing a mutant and running for the door past Sinister. He remembered Rogue doing the same, a former prisoner under each arm. He remembered Bobby carrying a fallen Callisto, and McCoy with another of the unnamed, faceless prisoners. Nine mutants escaped in Sinister's plane out of the twenty eight who were there, trapped. Remy counted it a massacre -- once he could have prevented. Why didn' I t'ink? I could've come up wit' somet'ing better. I could've saved Christian, or de prisoners. I should've come up wit' a better distraction, one dat would've worked. It's m' fault dey died, jus' like dose people in Seattle, o' Ginny. I should've been able t' save dem, but I failed, Gambit realized, hating himself.

Failure. Remy focused on the sky outside the cockpit, trying to forget how much that word hurt.

***

Hank McCoy finished bandaging the deep gash in Callisto's side. He frowned slightly and checked the pupil response in her one eye again. From what he could tell, the blow to her skull and only resulted in unconsciousness, not a concussion, but he wished he was at a hospital where she could be treated properly. He was worried about the cut in her side, but even more so about the face wounds. He doubted she'd ever see out of her right eye again, and her face would almost certainly be scarred. His other patients, Sunder, Annalee, Tommy, and Cybelle, were resting quietly, fortunately none as wounded as their impromptu leader.

The flying girl child with the white streaked hair was sitting as far away from them as she could get. McCoy tried to examine her, but received only a curt, "Don't touch me," in reply.

He passed by the ice boy on his way back to Callisto, and was startled to hear him speak. "She kills people when she touches them," the boy explained softly. Henry paused.

"Excuse me?"

"She drains the life out of a person if she touches him too long. Sinister strapped her down and forced her to kill two people. One of them was her -- our -- friend."

McCoy sat beside the boy. "So why aren't you there with her?" he asked compassionately.

"I want to hate her, but I can't," he confessed softly. The words and emotions built up inside him, needing release. The blue man's face was kind, and there was no condemnation in his voice. Bobby couldn't stop speaking. "I want to be able to comfort her, but I can't stand the thought of touching her, not after seeing what it did to Chris. I just . . . can't."

"I understand," McCoy said softly, and Bobby believed him.

"Where did Gambit find you?" Bobby asked, trying to take his mind off his conflicted feelings towards Rogue.

"Ah, so that's his name? He was remiss in introducing himself."

"I'm not surprised," Bobby said bitterly. "We had to drag the name 'Gambit' out of him; he wouldn't tell us anything else."

"You are angry with him," McCoy noted. Bobby shifted, not answering immediately.

"I want to blame him for this," he said lowly. McCoy had to strain to hear. "Sinister only took us because he wanted Gambit. Again. He said Gambit owed him, and Gambit agreed with him -- agreed to join him. He left us there," Bobby spat. "He let Christian be killed."

"I and over twenty other mutants were incarcerated in Sinister's labs. We would still be there if not for him."

"Most of those mutants are dead," Bobby said harshly. McCoy nodded slowly.

"Yes, regrettably, they are, but I believe they are better off as they are than being slowly tortured to death by Sinister in his 'experiments' or living in those cages for as long as he lets them live. I was there a short time compared to the rest of them, and as a result I am covered in blue fur, have fangs where I once had teeth, and am now endowed with these overly pointy ears. I do not wish to know what he could have done had I been there longer."

McCoy stood to leave, but a hand on his arm halted him.

"My name's Bobby Drake. What's yours?"

"Henry. Henry McCoy." Bobby nodded and released him.

McCoy made his way up to the cockpit. He ducked inside and took a seat in the co-pilot's chair. Gambit's strange eyes flickered towards him once, then the boy ignored his presence.

"You do not appear old enough to have a pilot's license," McCoy commented, trying to sound unthreatening.

"I don'," Gambit said curtly.

"Then how is it we are not plunging towards the earth?" McCoy allowed a little humor to creep into his voice. Gambit's mouth quirked in response.

"I've seen 't done a few times. Figured it couldn' be too hard, neh? Certainly better dan stayin' dere. Dose first few minutes were a li'l rough, t'ough."

"I noticed," McCoy agreed. Actually, he hadn't, busy as he was with trying to keep Callisto from bleeding to death.

"Why y' up here, McCoy?" Gambit asked.

"I came to see if you were all right."

Gambit laughed, but it sounded forced. "Not a damn scratch on me. Pity, neh?"

"It's not your fault," McCoy insisted gently. Gambit inhaled raggedly.

"Den whose is it?" he demanded intently. "I failed dem. It was 'cause o' me dat dey were dere in de firs' place. I didn' get Christian out, an' Rogue's a killer 'cause o' it. How she gonna live wit' dat?"

"How are you?" McCoy asked. Remy's hands clenched for a moment.

"Been livin' wit' it long 'nough. S'pose it won' do me no harm t' keep livin' wit' it," he argued bleakly. "I'm a killer; dat's why Sinister want me. He don' want Rogue o' Bobby o' Christian -- he want someone t' join his li'l pack o' trained killers."

"You turned him down," McCoy reminded him.

"I said yes!" Gambit half-shouted. He visibly calmed himself. "I tol' him 'yes', an' if Bobby, Rogue, an' Chris hadn' been dere, I would've been one o' dem, jus' like he wanted. His trained t'ief and sometimes killer. I owe him, McCoy. He save me from m'self when no one else would come near me. He gave me control, taught me t' fight, an' I turned m' back on everyt'ing I knew he did dere. Pretended not t' see. But everyone he hurt, it like I hurt dem. Deir blood on m' hands 'cause I jus' stood by. Dey don' have secon' chances f' people like me, dey have a pistol t' de back o' de head an' an unmarked grave."

McCoy clutched the arms of the chair tightly. Gambit was a killer. Gambit had saved his life. He left the trapped mutants once, but fought to save them when he had the chance. Gambit didn't expect another chance, didn't expect to be forgiven or accepted, but he wanted to be. McCoy could see it in his face when he spoke of the blood on his hands. And he'd had a second chance, hadn't he? Had a second chance, and chosen right. He said he had a reason to -- his loyalty to his friends. They would simply have to ensure that they boy always did have a reason to fight.

"Everyone deserves a second chance," he said firmly. "You most of all."

Gambit closed his eyes in relief, an action that greatly alarmed McCoy since he was flying the plane, and smiled.

"T'anks," he said, re-opening his eyes. "Y' should check on de ones in de back, make sure dey okay."

"Agreed." McCoy paused before he left, long enough to touch the boy's shoulder gently and reassure him that he was not alone. "Inform me when we land -- though if the takeoff was any indication, I am sure I will know."

Gambit smiled at the slight, his foul mood temporarily dispersed. "Sure t'ing. It just like fallin', an' I'm very good at dat."

"Somehow, I don't find that reassuring."

***

The mansion's alarms shrieked as an unidentified aircraft flew over. Lips pursured in concentration, Gambit brought their stolen plane around and slowed as he approached the asphalt of the road. He thought the landing went very smoothly, considering it was his first ever. McCoy did not share his opinion.

"Careful, Gambit! There's wounded back here!" he shouted. He and Bobby were attempting to keep their patients as un-injured as possible with the jouncing landing of the plane. The plane rolled to a stop directly in front of the gates where Storm, Jean, Cyclops, and Wolverine waited, ready to fight. Rogue was the first out of the plane, flying and sobbing to collide with Wolverine, her protector, her safe haven. He held her close, growling at whatever had hurt her. Henry was next, insisting on help with the wounded. Storm immediately returned to the house to recruit students and stretchers.

Bobby went to Scott, badly wanting to talk to the older man but knowing that Scott would put what needed to be done ahead of Bobby's personal issues -- at least until all the wounded were safely in the med lab under Jean's care. Until then, Bobby just wanted to be close to him, and take comfort in the man's steadying presence. Jean joined Henry with the wounded, checking the injuries for herself and conferring with Hank.

Gambit watched. They were distracted now. In a few minutes they would start bringing the wounded into the house and he could slip away. No questions, no accusations, he'd simply be gone. Alone, but at least he wouldn't have to see the disappointment in Stormy's eyes, the betrayal in Wolverine's, or the recrimination in Scott's. He'd just vanish. They wouldn't even miss him.

He made it as far as the woods before Wolverine caught him. "Marie said ya'd run. Where d'ya think yer goin'?"

Gambit looked away, refusing to meet Wolverine's gaze. "Anywhere but here." He wanted a cigarette badly. Throughout his captivity with Sinister and the intense ride home, he'd been too busy to care. Now, with nothing to do and a nasty situation about to hit him, he'd take a cigarette if it was Sinister offering it.

"Ya want outa here so bad ya gotta run without sayin' goodbye?" Wolverine growled. "Storm wouldn't like that. None of us would. Hell, we don't want ya ta leave, period."

"Y' should," Gambit snarled. "Y' should kill me y'self. It's my fault Sinister took dem, my fault Rogue ended up wit' Chris in her head an' blood on her hands. It's my fault dey died! If I'd 'a gone t' him 'stead o' comin' here, Christian'd be 'live now an' Rogue wouldn' . . . Rogue wouln' . . ." I'm not goin' t' cry, Remy told himself, forcing his breath past the catch in his throat. "It's better dis way," he finished bitterly.

"It is not," Storm insisted, coming up behind him. "I do not want you to leave, Gambit. You have a place here."

Remy shook his head, refusing to turn around. I don' want y' t' hate me, he thought.

"We won't, kid," Logan reassured him. Remy's head snapped up. He hadn't meant to say that aloud, even if it had been soft enough that only Wolverine's sharp hearing picked it up. "Come back ta the mansion and talk ta Xavier. If ya still feel like leavin' after, we won't stop ya."

Remy shoved his hands in his pockets. "All right."

***

Xavier heard the story first from Rogue and Bobby. They sat as far away from each other as they could, which saddened Xavier. Before they were inseparable. Bobby spoke rapidly, without emotion, and Rogue was content to let him. She added little, and Xavier knew the ordeal was still affecting her greatly.

"Thank you both. Why don't you go back to your rooms and try to get some sleep? You'll feel better just being in your normal routines again."

Bobby and Rogue both nodded dumbly and left. Gambit walked in, followed by the X-men. Storm and Wolverine sat closest to him, and Xavier received the impression that they were supporting him. Scott stood leaning against the wall, his face carefully expressionless. Jean looked torn between standing by Scott and defending the charmer who was the reason they were here. She moved to Scott, sliding an arm around his waste. He absently rested his hand on her shoulder, and Xavier hoped she would prove to be the moderating voice.

"Gambit? Would you tell us what happened?" Xavier asked. Gambit's face was blank, and he was so far behind his mental walls that Xavier couldn't even sense him.

"Nat'an Essex, de man Bobby 'n Rogue prob'ly tol' y' was called 'Sinister', decided he wan' t' have me workin' f' him 'gain. He showed up usin' one o' his terresects, grabbed me, Rogue, Bobby, an' . . . Christian." It hurt to say his name. One more dead 'cause o' me, he thought. "He had Sabertooth wit' him. Next t'ing I know, I'm chained t' a wall wit' one o' his collars on m' neck."

"What do the collars do?" Xavier asked.

"Dey shut off a mutant's powers," Gambit explained. Xavier nodded, unsurprised. "Sinister tol' me t' join him, an' I agreed. He sent me outa dere wit' two o' his lab men, an' I neutralized dem long enough t' get t' de security room. I looped de cameras an' rewired de alarm, den went t' find de mutants Sinister keeps f' his 'experiments'. Once I got dem out, I triggered de alarm. 'Cause o' de way I had it rewired, it triggered where we weren' an' let me get t' Rogue an' Bobby. When I got dere, I foun' out dat Sinister had forced her t' kill Christian."

"And Samuel," Xavier added, when it seemed Gambit wouldn't.

"Who's Samuel?" Gambit asked flatly, certain he didn't want to know.

"The mutant Rogue absorbed before Christian," Xavier answered. For a moment, Gambit's expression was pained, then his poker face reasserted itself.

"Didn' know dat. 'Splains de flyin' an' de strengt', t'ough. I got her an' Bobby out o' de collars an' chains, an' we tried t' get t' one o' de planes Sinister keeps in his lab. Dey were waitin' for us, an' we had t' fight our way t'rough. De ones on de plane are de only ones dat got t'rough."

"Out of how many?" Xavier asked, trying to get another reaction. Why did Gambit have to be so hard to read?

"Countin' dis Samuel? Twenty-eight." Gambit's fists clenched at the though. Twenty-eight, and only nine made it.

"Sounds to me like you did the best you could," Scott said unexpectedly. Gambit stared at him in disbelief.

"I should've gotten dem out; I should have known better. I knew Sinister; I knew how he worked. I should've been able t' do somet'ing. Dey shouldn' have died. Not if I didn' fuck it up."

"There was nothin' ya could do, kid. I'm surprised ya did as well as that. Team could use ya."

Gambit's head snapped from Wolverine to Professor Xavier, who nodded his agreement. "A t'ief like me? A killer?" he asked harshly, but Xavier could see the poorly hidden hope.

"A place and a home, as long as you need it," Xavier promised.

Ororo smiled at him and insisted serenely, "So long as you tell me your name, and do not call me Stormy."

Gambit grinned. "M' name's Remy LeBeau, Stormy."


End file.
